


Au Revoir

by maevestrom



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Appearance, Benefactor, Chapter 19 Will Not Be Shared on my personal FB, Crushes, Dancer, Dancing, F/F, Hair, Homophobia, Identity Issues, Implied Sexual Content, Implied abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Inspired by Music, Introvert, Lechery, Mild Sexual Content, Music, Playlist, Quarter-Life Crisis, Queerphobia, Shyness, So uh CW that shit for when it happens, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Transphobia, Travel, Unhealthy Relationships, Wealth, Women Being Awesome, city life, creepiness, dance practice, dance troupe, gender dynamic, individuality, personal assistant, potential, practice, seriously y'all cherche is a motherfrickin queen and she should be revered as such
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-15 21:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 54,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15421608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maevestrom/pseuds/maevestrom
Summary: Olivia has never felt more alive than when she's danced- except for when Cherche, the beautiful personal assistant for a wealthy benefactor, gives her troupe an offer from an employer that's set to change her life. Over the course of a week, the two of them start to see that their potential lies within each other, and not what's been given to them.





	1. I Am

**Author's Note:**

> This would be the other reason I did not finish Femslash Week. However, I feel this one is more justified. I feel like this one deserves more credit. If I could draw, this would be a webcomic. I won't lie that a lot of the visualization comes from comics like that (I Love Yoo is like top five favorite things right now). Olivia/Cherche were another one of my random.orged pairs, and I wanted to do it right, so I gave up doing it in a day and now want to make this a little long term, if you'll have it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are beautiful on the stage. Who are you off of it?

It’s easy to pretend no one’s there if you can’t see their faces.

You kneel to the ground, as wooden as it is hollow. The other dancers in your troupe, as identifiable as the audience, stand to each side of you. They do what you do, and it makes you feel safe, one of them, even when you deign to stand out. Music backdrops the performance before it starts, dainty piano being consumed by visceral drums much like how who you are is consumed by you will be.

In unison, all five of you look up. At once, they gasp, guarded and exhilarated. Waiting for more. They’re at the highest point of the roller coaster. As soon as you move, as soon as the music drops, they will drop, screaming in glee.

You have never loved anything more than leaving them with anticipation as you go from one move to another.

It’s easy to treat the audience as one person you will never know. You’ve done it for as long as you’ve performed. That’s the only way you can get through it all- if they are nothing but honored, amazed viewers, you can take their praise and take nothing but warm fuzzies from it. You won’t have to live up to it.

Then you see her, and suddenly someone is there.

She’s seated in the right of the third row, hands clasped together as though in prayer. Her hair is long and pink, like yours, but while yours is an intimidating mess of braids and ponytails, hers is straight enough to not have a hair out of place. Her features are faint, easy to miss, as easy to make her as faceless as the rest of the crowd were her grin not massive and blinding. She’s not a viewer of a dance, but of a gladiator match.

You work to forget her as the music reaches its dropping point. You count in your head, biting your lip with your eyes closed, trying not to let the world see how bloodthirsty and human you are.

The music drops, and you wonder if she’s still grinning.

She ceases to exist as your troupe launches into dance, but so do you. You are never the Olivia you know when you dance.

You’re better.

\---

Mr. Viron Pompier is a man of interest with a fitting name. As he talks backstage with the troupe, of which you are the only woman, he is full of pomp and circumstance. The five of you sit facing him on the cushions in the middle of the dimly-lit room between the stage and the theater hallway. You sit criss-crossed in the back next to someone who doesn’t look at you.

Your goal is to learn about him, and he is not shy about handing out lessons. Lessons from which high-society date he got his front row seat, to his relationship with the owner of the theater in Chon’sin you are currently performing in, to praise and criticism of the troupe that always softens to praise when he talks to you.

Maybe he could teach you why you feel so odd around him.

The boys around you, clad in matching black skinsuits and cropped haircuts, try to pay attention. They’re on their phones or lazily acknowledging him, planning for his departure, but their lip service is admirable. You also wear a skinsuit, fake diamonds near the heart. You hate how tight it is, and how it draws attention to you, especially from him. You would like to stop paying attention to him, but you can’t. When he addresses you, you don’t hear his words. You hear his voice, its grandiose dulcet tones and leaps and valleys from dramatic to sickly sweet, and his body language is so grand, his arms rising and falling so dramatically that all you can wonder is if they’ll drop on you.

Mr. Pompier reacts sharply to something that stops his words short. He looks behind him, and you notice the woman behind the man. She retracts her foot and smiles in a knowing, scolding way. The kind with teeth. You struggle to piece her together in her mind and look for an uncomfortably long time even though the corner of the eye reveals Mr. Pompier smoothing his long blue hair, no mirth in his smile, as he turns back to you.

“Forgive me, my sweet,” you hear your _nothing_ say. Your eyes are on the woman. She’s confined to a suit jacket as black as the night with a purple button-up undershirt, and a loose pencil skirt, thin white lines down the face equally as black as her suit. “This is Cherche, my personal assistant.” She nods, bowing grandly, her pastel pink hair falling over her face for a moment before returning as perfectly filed as it was before.

_Wait a second._

You’ve learned to keep your gasps to yourself, but you know your eyes have become as wide and bright as streetlight bulbs.

She waves at the group but looks at you as she does so. You lock eyes with hers- faded, tired mauve, a warm, weathered smile within them. “I’m here to make sure Mr. Pompier is operative and decently behaved,” she says, and the troupe chuckles, paying attention for probably the first time (and to be honest, these are the first words you may have actually heard all day). Though your own laughter is weaker, you mouth a thank you to her, in a way that most effectively communicates that you’re grateful, but you’ve already filled up your desired cup of human interaction for the day.

Mr. Pompier continues to speak, and you notice Cherche, surname unknown, stand by him, polite smile as she waits to protect her charge from himself- and hopefully, not others from her charge.

\---

You stay at the back of everyone else in the Galactic Shadows troupe, all of you hightailing it to your apparent favorite bar whose name you often forget. The other four take the lead, talking amongst each other and occasionally back to you, where you give passable replies. It’s been enough months for them to know to smile and turn back when you end things curtly, though not enough that you can give more than two lines about each of them.

You look up at the lights in the city. Chon’sin City is so massive that even having lived here all twenty-five years of your life, you still haven’t seen even half of it. It envelops you, and for once you feel comfortable in how minuscule you are. You can’t imagine leaving it.

You walk through Old Town, a sprawling, open park to your left and the road before old brick-and-mortar firestone towers to your right. It’s raining a summer drizzle, just slightly enough that you don’t regret not bringing a jacket, but enough that what doesn’t dissipate in your massive, uncut mane sinks through your thin _Studio Killers_ T-Shirt.

You hear the boys talking. There’s Stahl, clad in fuzzy dad-sweater and baggy jeans, always the first to blush and scratch the back of his head whenever Vaike, strutting like the cock of the block in his superfluous shirtlessness, says something off-color (which is to say Stahl is near-permanently red).

Henry, you have never seen out of the skinsuit you perform in- you’re amazed that he has only had to pay for three replacements over the year you’ve performed together. He stalks every conversation for an opportunity to inject something nasty into it. Judging by the way that Vaike says “oh, that’s fucking gross!” it was probably not the type of crude that he wanted.

Lon’qu you almost forget about, as he makes sure to walk as far away from you as possible. He never meets your eye without shock and anger, and he should thank his lucky stars you are the only woman on Earth who wouldn’t bother demanding answers from him over it.

“Oh, thank _god_ she did,” you suddenly hear Vaike shout. The conversation was nicer when it was at the normal volume level. You watch the cars as they pass you, looking at the ground for any puddles that might splash you. “I was just waiting for him to stop babbling. That seemed to do the trick.”

Stahl sighs. “Yeah. I mean, he was making me uncomfortable.” Hand on the bridge of his nose, he adds “I mean, this is just me, but he was making me uncomfortable the way he was talking to Olivia.”

You perk up at your name. Pretending you were in the conversation from the start: “Mr. Pompier?”

Stahl nods. “Yeah. I mean, you looked uncomfortable, and I know he made me uncomfortable.”

You shrug. “It’s over now.” Stahl nods and, sensing your involvement is also over, leaves you a smile as he turns back.

Henry grins at passing helicopters in the sky, waving as though they’ll see him. “If he gets that way again, I’ll kick his dick off, okay Stahl?”

Vaike gags. “Naga, Henry, do we have to stop letting you out in public?”

Henry’s smile grows wide enough to take a bite out of the stars. “ _Fine_ , I won’t,” he says with an exaggerated whine. Then, calling to you: “Hey, Olivia! If he creeps on you again, can you kick his dick off?”

You snicker, mostly at how a horrified Stahl gawks back and forth between the two of you like Henry cut the wrong wire on purpose. “I’ll be sure to,” you promise half-heartedly.

Vaike laughs. “If we can get that Cherche lady without Mr. Boss-Man, it would be so much better.” Then, in response to no one: “I mean, come on! She’s a looker!”

Lon’qu decides to make his presence known by turning to Vaike so hard that Vaike leaps, squealing. “Quiet!” the loner hisses. “You gods-damn pervert.”

“Hey, Mr. Party Pooper,” Vaike responds. “I can’t help it if she’s fuckin’ scorching.” Stahl rolls his eyes, at once used to and already annoyed by his friend. “I mean, she’s got a total dominatrix thing going on, innit?”

“ _Vaike,_ what did we literally _just_ talk about?” Stahl scolds. The longer he stays near Vaike, the more you wonder what secrets keep his hair from turning gray.

Henry cackles. “You think every woman in a suit is a dominatrix!”

“Look, I won’t argue that. But a woman in a suit is fucking hot.” Vaike throws his hands up and turns to you, pleading for his life. “I’m not full of it, right Liv?”

You’ve already gotten used to being the liferaft he swims towards to die defending his certain brand of noble perversion. You feel six eyes on you (Lon’qu never looks at you) waiting for your answer. Always going for the one that ends the conversation quickest, you force a nod and keep your eyes on the ground at your side, stepping onto the grass of the park as you pass a puddle, just in case.

“See?” Vaike says, though you can’t see their faces looking where you are. “Olivia thinks it’s legit.”

Stahl laughs. “Okay, I doubt that the validity of your claim was the problem in question.”

You smirk, but don’t look back up. Your surroundings get darker as you step between streetlights. They take your warmth away as you reflect on her, how she already retreats to your past as a missed connection, but when you reach the light and people can see you again, you smile.


	2. Just Another Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, for one thing, you don't like being disturbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you  
> For listening again  
> Or for the first time  
> Or for the last time  
> We share this moment  
> And i am grateful for this
> 
> Here's chapter two. I've drafted about half the story and it's so easy to get sucked in. Hopefully you take the little pieces and enjoy them and anticipate the rest half as much as I do

You dance with movements that you only need ten percent of. Anyone can walk. Anyone can twirl. A lot of the basic steps can be done even by awkward prom couples. It's what you put into them that matters, and what you put into them is _everything._ The steps are only functional. It's the flare, the mood, that gives them life.

No, if you wanted the definition of pure, unattractive function, you’d look at your house.

You sit on an orange couch with torn cushions that fit into your rummage sale chic aesthetic. You're drinking from a coffee mug you got from a furniture store as part of a matching deal with a ballpoint pen. You set your coffee atop the plain white brand store coffee table. The TV, an old black rock that you want to drop out of your window sometimes, is playing news you subconsciously avoid paying attention to from a bursting old wooden dresser. Behind you is the kitchen, approximately two steps away from your living room. The counter is rickety and laminated, held up by your mini-fridge. All of the appliances on it are the cheapest you could find, and at least half are secondhand.

You probably would be more concerned if your apartment was more than a halfway house between performances to you.

You can’t get your mind off of dancing- the concept more than the immediate task. You are _Olivia the dancer,_ and _Olivia the member of Galactic Shadows_ . Combined, that makes _Olivia the professional dancer_ , which you suppose you are even though you don’t feel like it. You always imagined dancing to be a glamorous job, or that being professional would make you more glamorous, but as you’re watching fuzzy, static-tainted news on a bulky TV while in a stained local college sweater, glamorous is the last thing that you feel like.

But it’s so comfortable that you know that you’re gonna miss it.

So you gulp down the rest of the coffee before you change your mind.

You shut the TV off and turn the music on your photo to a familiar pop playlist. You know every song by heart and can’t disassociate them from your preparation practice. You don’t have much room in your apartment- you’ve been too busy or tired to clean it in days- but you’ve carved out enough room between dirty linens in a hallway to do your stretches. Your second home is the gym, so this is probably all excessive, but you struggle to see the negatives.

There’s a mirror down the hall leaning crooked on one nail. After lifting up most of your massive waves of hair, you look at it and notice that your legs and abs are as toned as ever, and fist pump. Your goal is to keep your body taut, limber, and able. Anything less than perfection is garbage in your eyes, and being a perfect dancer is your dream.  

Washing your hair takes you far too long a time. You showered last night when you got home but give up and do it again because you have to get undressed anyways. Plus, no amount of clean is too clean. You’re gonna sparkle by the time the week is done.

Your hair gets tangled in itself and untying the knots takes longer than the shampooing, but your mandatory lengthy beauty care routine is why you always get up a few hours before work. When it’s all done it’s worth it. Your hair lies down to your waist in as straight a fashion as it will ever be (that is to say, not very, but at least not a rat’s nest). You braid the front of it up, and carefully put the rest in a ponytail.

People have suggested haircuts before. Well, suggested is a moderate term, one you estimate to be... right about halfway between Stahl and Lon’qu. The truth is, though, you’d let your hair grow down to your feet like Lady Godiva if you could. Maybe it’s obtrusive and gets in the way, but you can and always will cope with it. It’s not like it’s long enough for you to step on it whenever you dance, and even if you did you wouldn’t mind. The way it flows when you dance is like an ocean, one you let submerge you every time, flood the stage, wave after wave.

You quickly accent it with some light makeup, because you know what your centerpiece is.

About ten minutes later finds you wearing a one-sleeved white shirt, black flats, and thigh-high pink mini skirt, because you _may_ have taken too long otherwise. You grab your things in a hurry, stuff them in your small white plastic purse, and walk out of your apartment and into the sunlight. Your humble home is one apartment in a complex with chipped white paint, and the sooner you get down those rickety metal stairs, the further you get from your little disaster area.

You stop halfway through and realize you forgot to lock it. Swearing and nearly dropping your purse, you run back up and finagle the key through the lock.

There. _Now_ you can leave your little disaster area.

(Not that the bus is much cleaner.)

\---

There’s no one watching, and that might be the best part of all.

You spin on tiptoe slowly, bent over, arms outstretched, reaching for nothing. The more you twirl, the more you pull inside, your hair a pink geyser that lunges at no one before it retreats to your head, dousing you in its warmth-

And then you trip. Gods damn it.

You don’t fall, but you stumble like you were slapped, losing your focus. You blink and reorient yourself, because you get too lost dancing sometimes. _Where are you right now?_ you ask yourself. _Where are you right now?_

You’re in the practice room of the theater you’re performing in this week, each side a black wall with plenty of mirrors, feet planted on a wooden floor. There’s a bit of natural sunlight from the basement windows, but you still have the light on. The room is unfamiliar to you, but you’re comforted by it regardless.

There’s also about thirty minutes before the show starts, so you may want to get this part of the routine done with. _Galactic Shadows_ tend to go from establishment to establishment in Chon’sin, performing the same five routines every week at different places, always flying by the seat of your pants. You know those routines by heart, but you’re worried- probably irrationally- that your body may unlearn the moves that make you special. Without dance, who is Olivia Strauss?

Today, you’d be damned if you found out.

You clear your throat and prepare to spin again, one leg behind the other. You start off slow, but ramp it up, stretching to hold your arms out once more, an invisible force in the wind pulling them towards something you can’t see, much less know that you want. You pull in, slower this time, and as you do you gradually pull your arms up towards the ceiling. You eventually stop, and this time you don’t trip, hands aimed at the sky.

You smile. You can’t help it. You smile every time you do something great, and you don’t do many great things outside of dancing.

Before you can continue, the door opens.

“Aiiiiieeeee!”

That’s the closest approximation of what you think you sound like when the door opens. You turn away, head bowed to your knees, letting your hair cover you. A set of footsteps run in closer to you- the opposite of what you want- and a familiar voice asks “is something the matter?”

You tilt your head up, surprised and- dare you say- intrigued. Slowly, you turn around, hand over your mouth, and look Cherche straight in the eye. You jump again, but manage not to shriek this time. Still, your eyes are wide with questions that probably don’t need to be asked.

“H-h-h-hi…” you breathe, chest tight.

She slowly waves once she’s slightly comfortable being there. She looks less and less concerned by the moment, exchanging it for confusion. She’s wearing a black button-up shirt and a pair of dress pants a size too big for her. She is the opposite of you, her expressions as ethereal as the features on her face, while you have never successfully hidden how you felt in your life.

“Are you alright?” she asks you.

You shake your head. “Oh! I mean-” you start nodding. “Nothing’s the matter,” you insist quickly. “Everything’s okay!”

She’s not quite convinced. “I hope that’s the case.” She tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach.

“It is!” you repeat. “I just… I really like practicing alone. You know?”

“But of course,” she says, easing towards the door. “Apologies for embarrassing you!” She smiles in lieu of telling you what she meant to do.

You try and smile in return, but you’re about to blow a blood vessel or two. “Just… I need…” You can’t figure out the word so you shoo her away. _Classy, Olivia, dear Gods._ She takes the hint, waving cordially at you and leaving, shutting the door with an endeared giggle.

“I’m sorry!” you scream at the door. You knead your forehead, staring at the ground and trying to center yourself. _Where are you right now?_ You look around at the room, because your mind won’t accept that you’re somewhere near the corner of humiliation and irrationality. You see the floor and the mirrors on the black walls reflecting you on every side, but your mind’s eye can’t help but replay Cherche leaving the room, leaving a trace of laughter in her wake. You can almost hear it.

You close your eyes and start spinning again, getting back into _Olivia the dancer_ , further away from _Olivia the question mark_.


	3. Everything You Ever Dreamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You hate being treated like you're just a pretty face. You're too messy for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So every now and again if a chapter feels incomplete or the next part is important I will post them 24 hours apart. Sometimes immediately apart. I just do not like big chapters. I do not have the attention span for them. Hopefully you understand!

The routine is going exceptionally well. You keep your focus on the dance, flipping through steps in your mind like cue cards. You aren’t quite cognizant that you are dancing while you do so, but later, each memory excites you to the core, because _you_ were in control of what happened. Things didn’t happen to you, _you_ happened to _them_. The sporadic cheers of the audience are your soundtrack more than the music is.

You hear a pair of hands hit the floor as Henry and Vaike perform cartwheels towards and away from each other. Behind you, Stahl, and Lon’qu, they unleash the beast, performing as many flips as they can between the three of you- the two boys already spinning, straightarrow, while you swing your hips in the middle, hands clasped, the priest in a religious ceremony. Oh, sure, you aren’t doing much now, but beneath your divine stance, you wait for the beat to drop, so you can bring the crowd to their knees in worship.

While you wait, you chance a look across the eager audience, bathed in natural light breaking the curtains on the giant windows, to make sure they’re watching. You scan from left to right, licking your lips, twirling once, just once, to keep them on guard. You look right, and in the third row, again, is her.

You gasp, but just barely, and you cover your mouth to make it look coordinated as you look towards the center. You refuse to let Cherche enter your mind, only summarizing her as “cute” and “I scared her.” Soon, all that remains is her bloodthirsty grin, the anticipation in her smile that dwarfs the crowd around her into the same one person that doesn’t measure up to her.

Then, the beat drops, and you’re completely online again.

You kick the ground behind you and start to spin. You kick again, spinning further, free leg slowly rising up behind your knee. The crowd screams then cheers, and you are sure at least a couple would date you if you so wanted. This is the only place you welcome those emotions, where they feel earned and earnest, not sleazy and happenstance.

You bend your head, letting your hair do the talking. It surrounds you again, and you let the sea envelop you as you close your eyes. You spin for a half-minute, impressively long, but not too long. Moderation. You slowly rise up like a phoenix from your own ashes, your hair at your back as you praise the heavens and come to a complete stop.

She’s right in your eyesight as you open them. You focus in on her and bow. She doesn’t stop grinning, but she closes her eyes, satisfied as if she accomplished something.

Perhaps she did.

You give her a second’s thought and feel a quick pang of happiness. Then, it’s gone, and you’re back to your dance.

\---

You take a deep breath as you stare into a mirror backstage, sitting on a stool. You didn’t apply your makeup very well on your way out of your house, so a lot of it is either faded or runny. Thankfully, none of it got on your black skinsuit, but you wipe your face down with a wet wipe, the best thing you have at the moment because you for some reason forgot to pack makeup wipes in your purse.

The boys are talking about Gods-know-what. You only listen to hear if they say your name, but all you can get are complaints about how tired they are, and Vaike saying, short of breath, how he could go for another hour. Henry jokes about Vaike trying that line on the ladies, and honestly, the way Vaike sputters a failed response and Stahl groans to avoid laughing gives you life. It’ll probably be the one thing you remember about the day.

“Speaking of flirting,” Henry responds, and you feel his eyes on you. “I think I saw our pretty Miss Olivia doing just that!”

You immediately want to kill him. Too bad he would probably like it. You face the wet wipe and aggressively focus on cleaning the rest of your face from the danger of slightly runny eyeliner.

“Really?” Vaike asks. Now you feel his eyes on your head.

“Naga, guys,” you respond.

“Yep!” Henry says with his distinct nya-ha laugh. “And during the show too! I’m pretty sure picking up chicks isn’t part of the routine!”

“That happens naturally later,” Vaike adds. You hear someone growl next to you, which is how you remember that Lon’qu is part of the troupe.

“Look,” you defend, voice quiet as ever. “I scared her earlier. I just wanted to take a little second to let her know, like, I didn’t mean to push her away.”

“How’d you scare her?” asks Henry. “I didn’t know she could get scared.”

“That is none of your business!” you insist. The last thing you want to talk about is your love life (or whatever the hell this is), especially around then. Thankfully, the boys know not to hassle or flirt with you (or in Vaike’s case, know it’s futile) but that doesn’t stop a lot of gossip, conversation, and hassle over the women that _do_ catch your eye.

Thankfully, Stahl interjects “ease up, guys, just let her do her thing.” You turn around to see him look specifically at Vaike as he does so, eyes disapproving and at least attempting to be serious.

Vaike isn’t intimidated. “Okay, _dad_ , I’ll stop. Just don’t expect me to stop noticing, okay?”

Stahl shakes his head, affectionately disappointed. “Just as long as you keep your observations to yourself.” With a mean grin, he adds “you know, the only audience that wants to hear them.”

You finish cleaning your face and then some when the door creaks open. Always surprised, you jump an inch or two on your stool and look ahead before the others do. That’s how you see her first and guard your chest with your free arm. As much as you trust her (or don’t distrust her) it’s far different being onstage than offstage.

“Hello,” she says, waving at everyone. The guys all look at her as well (save Lon’qu, of course) and you’re annoyed that Vaike looks quite hungry. They wave back, and you shyly do the same.

“Miss Cherche,” Stahl responds. “What a surprise to see you! Without Mr. Pompier, at that.” The other guys nod, and you try to as well, but you cringe and don’t know why. Maybe because Mr. Pompier never crossed your mind when it came to Cherche.

Cherche nods respectfully. If she was slighted, she is a master at hiding it. “I do have some news to share on his behalf. Regardless of that, I would like to say how impressed I am.”

Stahl scratches the back of the neck, while you take the compliment with a shy smile. It’s not like you felt you did poorly, but others acknowledging that they saw you always reminds you that you have an actual impact on people, and you aren’t used to being permanent. Vaike and Henry high-five.

Cherche looks behind you all, standing on tiptoes. “I could have sworn there were five members?”

Lon’qu hears this, growls, and stands up to leave. Stahl looks at Cherche, whose smile grows wan as Lon’qu exits stage left. “Don’t worry about him,” Stahl says. “He’s… unusual.”

Henry laughs again. “No, I’m unusual! I don’t know what the word is for him, but it ain’t generic vanilla strangeness.”

“Probably gynophobic,” Vaike adds.

Stahl closes his eyes. “Pardon my friends,” he says. “They’re… stupid.” Cherche giggles and you stifle laughter.

“Hey!” Vaike responds.

“No argument there!” Henry admits, grinning.

You sigh. The boys have been going on for so long you wouldn’t be surprised if Cherche forgot what she was going to say. Before you can stop, you say “Anyway, Cherche, what did you want to tell us?”

Cherche closes her eyes. You can already tell that’s how she smiles most sincerely. “Thank you, madam.” You blush again, close to immolating. “Anyway, what I wanted to let you all know is that Mr. Pompier is going to be observing the rest of the week. His hope is to have reason to take the entire troupe on board.”

The others murmur approvingly and you offer a courteous smile. “Nice,” Stahl tells her, smiling.

“I would hope!" She narrows her eyes with a sneaky smirk. "Since Mr. Pompier has an itch to travel…”

She lets you all piece it together, eyeing you all with anticipation. You realize after everyone else in the room vocalizes their approval (more accurately, after Vaike yells “freakin’ sweet!”) and you scream quietly, hands at your mouth as you jitter in your seat.

Cherche grins, lips tight. “Well then, I suppose I needn’t say it!”

“We’re going to be traveling?!” Vaike shouts.

“Should Mr. Pompier decide to hire you all,” Cherche clarifies. “However, with the talent that you seem to have…” she takes a second to softly look at you. You squeak quietly, terrified in the best way. “That should hardly be a problem. Just keep it up, my dears, would you?”

“Absolutely,” Stahl says with a smile, which is good because you’re too busy stuttering to form words. “Tell Mr. Pompier that we think it’s an honor to be considered.”

Cherche smiles and nods. “I will. To all of you, keep up the good work!” The others wave and you manage to smile at her as she goes to leave. She faces you, and bows ever so slightly. Just enough that you would notice, not enough to draw attention to herself.

The others celebrate, yelling about how they’re going to see the world and how nice it would be to get out of Chon’sin City. Meanwhile, your skin invents new shades of red while she waves farewell, beaming at you and leaving before you can even think of all the questions you want to ask her. You wonder if it was as easy to make her as hot and bothered when you danced as she made you with a simple nod.

Vaike turns to you and, upon looking you over, starts to crack up. Henry grins, and Stahl coos. You blush even more furiously under your gaze. “What’s the big deal?” you respond with dramatic anger. Your dating life has never been adorable or worth gawking over, yet they seem to consistently act like it’s both. “Women have crushes sometimes! That’s not weird!”

Vaike looks to Stahl. “Told you.”

Stahl scratches the back of his head. “I mean, it wasn’t a far-out guess.” He faces you, and you just want to curl into your hair and disappear before the others note how _precious_ this all is.

To your relief, he says “just let her write the story on her own.”

You smile a merciful thanks and look into the mirror again. The guys start talking to each other and leave you be (although you would imagine they’re talking about you). You face in the mirror again and realize just how much she set you off, possibly without comprehending just how bad she did. You are used to being memorable on-stage. So why does a woman like her remember you when you are off of it?


	4. A Little Bit Of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That doesn't mean you don't die when people praise you. It just has to be the right person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently 17k deep into the manuscript and it went basically where I expected, but more. You may see tags change, but that's for the future. I hope you enjoy the now!

She doesn’t consume your every thought.

She just makes whatever thought she touches a good one.

You like how when you think about her you’re no longer in reality. You’re not on a bus older than you are, five feet off of the ground with no air conditioning, languishing in the back by an open window and the sound of the moaning engine. You’re not sure where you are- no beachside vacation or anything romantic- but you’re not where you are, and it feels nice.

You can’t force yourself to think of her. Hell, when you think of her at all there isn’t much to draw on, but what little you have you get lost in. Like how when you dance, you leap with gusto and land with force. The earth shakes beneath your tiny feet. She doesn’t seem like she ever took a step that wasn’t perfectly light and poised.

At least, if she did, you would like to find out.

You stare at the back of the bus driver’s head about forty feet away, awakened from your disgustingly pure fantasy. Gods, the least you could do is fantasize about the fact that she's crazy hot like normal people would. Hell, you've done it before with other women, but she just feels like… something a little bit more.

That little bit more is turning you into a friggin’ cheeseball. Someone more classy and pretentious than you are (you hope).

Oh well.

You focus on your surroundings. There are scattered civilians further ahead, and you lay a leg out on the two seats next to you to mark your territory. You’re close enough to the theater, but you forgot to stretch before you left because you’re barely in your right mind today.

That, and there ain’t a damn way you’re gonna associate with anyone without your okay.

You close your eyes and sigh. You’re a mess. Not like her. She’s so frustratingly together that you don’t think you have a chance in hell of breaking that. The most you get is the smile she has when you dance. That giddy, greedy grin that consumes her to unashamedly comic levels, but at the same time, doesn’t feel real. You want to see her real smile. You want to see the real her, somehow, but all she leaves you with are questions-

You realize you’re about to miss your stop. Shrieking for a bare second, you yank on the cord and clamber to your feet, nearly falling out of your flats. The driver pulls to a sudden stop and you apologize profusely, scrambling to the back door. The driver laughs in a detached sort of way as the back door opens. You nearly fall down the stairs on your way out, pulling your hair out of the way in a practiced manner that may profess to past abhorrent hair days suffered to the whims of the back door. (Your scalp still doesn’t feel the same after the last one.) The bus leaves you a block from the theater, and you look more like _Olivia the windstorm victim_ than anything, hair a stringy mess and loose top flowing dangerously to the right.

You smooth yourself down walk towards the theater and prepare to be Olivia the dancer, where none of your messy imperfections need apply.

You take rhythmic steps down the sidewalk despite you not having any music plugged in. There’s a song in your head that walks up and down the piano keys on your legs, so audible you’re almost tempted to pop in your headphones and find it on your music app. You let the song carry you down the street towards the theater, and you briefly imagine yourself and Cherche dancing to this. Then you snap to again, and your first thought is disgust that you’re thinking of a good first dance when you should wonder why she would actually date you. If she just isn’t being nice. If she has seen thousands of women more attractive than you, which she probably has. If she’s even remotely gay in the first place.

(Though you have a hunch. A very gay hunch.

Slash delusion.)

You hear a wolf-whistle from a very male figure who passes you, and as he passes by you see the motion of someone lowering their shades so you can feel a set of eyes on your ass. You blush furiously, growling as you push your hair towards your face, and as you hear his footsteps dissipate, you wonder how many catcalls it will be before you’re _Olivia the pepper spray carrier_. You aren’t yet, because you don’t want to be that person. Besides, some days where you just want to be left alone you think you would spray everyone who talks to you.

You think of Cherche feigning innocence after kicking him in the shin and you’re… a little less angry.

Still pretty peeved, but less so.

\---

You throw your bag in the backstage room where the five of you meet. It’s always been just you five, for as long as the _Galactic Shadows_ have existed, and by now you would imagine that you are all in the comfortable roommate zone. Before, Stahl was the pronounced leader and not just the most together adult human, and before every show he would give you all a pep talk that inspired you to think you were more than you were. Now, a year in, you’ve found that you can all survive without team exercises and mandatory bonding, and once you all figured that out, the boys faded away with the excuse of personal business and reoriented focus.

All the best, you figure. You were never the most social and welcomed the return of old antisocial habits with only some apprehension.

Stahl notices your arrival. It’s just him and Vaike, and Vaike is too busy with mirror Vaike to pay attention to your presence. “Hey, Liv,” Stahl says with a wave. You wave back, smiling courteously, before sitting down and crossing your legs, brushing nonexistent foliage off of your shorts.

“You have the routines down?” he asks you, looking at you despite the fact that you don’t return eye contact.

“I should by now,” you respond.

Vaike turns in his rotating stool, round black hairbrush gesturing for him. “Yeah, we’ve only been doing the same shit for like seventy weeks or so. Think the whole damn city could train us if we forgot.” He returns to the mirror, brushing his hair, arm on the desk before him.

Stahl smirks. “You know that, and I know that, but with Mr. Pompier giving us consideration, we have to show him that we’re a worthwhile investment, you know?”

Vaike works out a tangle in his hair, wincing and seething. Yeah, have him deal with a double-digit amount of tangles in the morning and then he can talk. “Yeah, yeah, but let’s be real, if he saw potential in the first few days, he’ll see it in the days after. All of our performances are the same, you know?”

“Yeah,” Stahl admits. You look at him, hand on chin, breathing like he’s taking in the courage to say something. You recognize it from every time you go to say something important, and all the times you don’t say it.

Luckily, he is not you. “I don’t know, maybe we should try something unique on the fifth day?”

“Unique?” you blurt.

“Yeah,” he responds. “You know, something to show him we’re not a one-trick pony who just dance the same steps every time.”

“Which we are,” Vaike points out, smirking at his reflection.

“I think we could be more,” Stahl argues, his smile fading into a grimace.

“Like how?”

Stahl doesn’t answer, and you don’t find any answers in the ground you’re staring at. Vaike hmphs triumphantly, but you can’t see what he’s won. “Exactly,” he says. “I say we don’t take our chances. We’re, like, a shooter on rails. Away from our routine, we can’t even dance, much less come up with new plans.”

“Maybe _you_ can’t.”

You seethe and grab your bag as the other two turn towards you. “She speaks,” Vaike tells Stahl because apparently, he forgot how to talk to you when it’s not looking for your approval to drool over the women you kinda hoped were into you.

You shake your head and walk towards your dressing room before you’re stuck there, the boys facing you, waiting for you to tell them why they’re wrong. You don’t have an answer. You just can’t let yourself believe that you’re little more than a tired puppet on the same strings.

If you can’t dance, who are you?

_Olivia the nothing._

Neither one responds as you walk down the hallway to your dressing room, slamming the door. You take shelter inside. This may be a dimly lit room with brick walls and a water heater on the other side of a marquee mirror and makeup desk, but you know that no one can bug you here. Truth be told, it’s your happy place for when you are just _done_ with people, and already you need a day-long vacation from them.

You lock the door and set your purse down again. Your skinsuit is alone, hanging from the single hanger on a nearby clothes rack, and an expensive, moderately useful makeup palette rests on the desk. Next to it is a small poofy brush, but in this case, it isn’t alone. There’s a paper sticking out beneath it and something atop it, something about the size of the brush but decidedly not that.

Slowly, gingerly, you walk to the palette, as though the objects will bite. Thankfully, they do not. You see the non-brush clearer now, a soft pink rose clear of thorns. You’re used to this, as a few spectators will request to have roses left behind by whoever manages whatever building you’re in. They’re messy, scattered, and even alone only speak of impersonal affection. A device of dance, not a person.

Seeing as that’s all you aspire to be to them, you accept that... but this rose is alarmingly personal.

For one, you usually get them just after your performance, not a full day after. It also seems more... meaningful, somehow. Care was taken with dethorning it, and it lies atop the palette like Sleeping Beauty waiting for a kiss, peaceful and expectant- of what you can’t say.

More curious than ever, you hold it by its stem gingerly, like it’ll disappear. You turn your attention to the paper beneath the palette, lifting it up to grab the paper with your free hand. You hold it to your eyes. It’s plain white cardstock with a raised curly pattern at the header, an invisible binding of vines that feels like someone’s personal touch- from them to you.

Written beneath it: _Looking forward to an encore! CA_

You feel a familiar feeling, more intensely than before. It’s the feeling where everything in the world stops _being_ for a moment, leaving only you, the concept of her, and the way you allow yourself to take a few seconds to revere the fact that nothing else matters. You hold the card close to your chest and dance in place. You’re giddy, uncoordinated, and it’s absolutely nothing you would show the world, but it’s precious in its own way. It doesn’t take the edge off of your racing heart, but you don’t mind, because truth be told this makes you happier than the announcement from Mr. Pompier.

This accomplishment has a personal touch.

(Though gods, her surname better start with an A or you're really in trouble.)


	5. Underground or In Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If it isn't the right person, it ends as soon as it begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *adds another character to the tag list*

The day has gone by, the practice uneventful but frightfully long.

You make sure every movement is precise, perfect, right on time, ready to knock them dead. You would go to that extreme anyways, but you know that the rose is in your bag, and it motivates you further. You know how you got it.

You skip lunch, rationalizing it as you not having the money to buy anything, but you don’t care enough to miss it. No one interrupts until Lon’qu opens your door and scares the hell out of you.

He doesn’t even bother to react to your scream, or you falling on your ass mid-jump. “Thirty minutes,” is all he says before leaving.

“Knock first!” you scream at the door, throwing a shoe at it in frustration where it clatters off the door with a tiny thwap. _The nerve of that bastard!_ You seethe, thrown off your rhythm, and grab your phone even though you probably didn’t get a message.

The time reads 6:45. You perform at 7.

_Well._

You’re a mess as you run into your dressing room, throwing on your skinsuit and quickly applying makeup. You put a little too much rose blush on your cheeks and yank any tangles out of your hair. You leave your purse there, throwing yourself out to the direct backstage room, sitting on the edge of the cushions closest to the stage and catching your breath.

The other boys are there, dead quiet as it gets near time to perform. There’s no talking, no interacting. It’s less an art troupe about to sell their souls to the masses, and more a bus stop where everyone waits on their own and you pretend not to notice the others. It’s done a lot to help you avoid interacting with people of varied pleasantness, but you haven’t been challenged in ages. Confronted or talked down to, sure, but you can ignore that. It doesn't matter, and that's the problem.

Maybe Vaike was right. Maybe you’ve lost your ability to matter outside of a scripted routine.

Who does that leave you as? _Olivia the employee_?

It hits time to take the stage. You take a deep breath and stand up. You’re nervous you’ll miss the steps, but there’s no reason to. That seems to be your biggest skill in life- those very steps. Vaike looks at you as you walk by mirthlessly, and asks “you okay, Liv?” You don’t answer, because if you vocalize your thoughts, your mood will be too ruined to dance.

Besides, all five of you need to be on your A-Game for Mr. Pompier.

You’re the only one who wants to, and it isn’t for him.

\---

You come in, exhausted, and feeling like quite the fool.

Mr. Pompier was there in the front row, observing you all, arms folded, smirking, blue hair lazily on his shoulders. He looked like he wanted you to dance for _him_ , to show him he would make a good investment. You looked up, and around, and didn’t see Cherche anywhere nearby. It was just the audience, him, you, and your troupe.

You danced because you knew you had to, not because you wanted to, and you feel strangely used. Probably because… Gods help you for sounding like a pretentious artist, but you feel like a means to an end. A way for Mr. Pompier to meet his capital. It’s not even that you want to stand up for artistic integrity like dance is some blockaded temple only the pure of heart should access. You love dancing because it makes you feel worthwhile. Like there is a reason you are Olivia. The more you lose sight of that, the less you _are._

Shows how fragile your standing is with yourself when so little could jeopardize who you are.

Not long after you are backstage, Mr. Pompier walks in with a grand grin. The five of you look up, Stahl leading with a smile. “Mr. Pompier!” he says. “Nice to see you!” The others save permanent exception Lon’qu nod, so you do the same, forcing a smile. The boys are all suddenly more respectful of him than they were two days ago, and even you admit that you’re prepared to pay his words mind.

You note that he’s there with another man, who you recognize as the owner of the theater from the minimal business interactions Stahl led with you in the backdrop. He’s a towering black man in cartoonishly bougie clothing, his suit jacket open over a red shirt with a star on it and adorned by a massive fountain of feathers in the collar, and his suit pants over tall black boots that clomp with every step. He has an eyepatch on his left eye and his hands clasped together, and a smile so warm that while you’re intimidated by having a person so outgoing near you, so... _ready_ to interact, you’re not scared of him.

Stahl continues, hand on his neck. “Mr. Ottone too! I certainly didn’t expect you to be here as well!”

Mr. Ottone laughs. “Kid, you can call me Basilio. I don’t need any of that formality shit.” He looks back at the rest of you. “That goes for all of you, too!”

“Sorry!” you yelp for some reason.

Basilio laughs knowingly but doesn’t yank at you any further. “I just figured I should accompany Mr. Pompier so he doesn’t go crazy with the praise.”

“That would be preferred,” Lon’qu says. You sputter at his voice. That’s the most prescient thing he’s ever said, and you can’t believe he said it at all. Still, Basilio is quite the lifesaver. The way Mr. Pompier talks to you like he will get what he wants unsettles you.

“So that is what he sounds like,” Mr. Pompier notes, features shifty and weary. Then, with a clap, he goes back to managerial mode. “I wanted to let you know personally what a fantastic job you are doing! I am sure you wondered what I was thinking, given the circumstances, but I thought I should stop by and tell you that you are exceeding my expectations!”

The five of you clap, though you feel unsteady as you do. “That’s great news, Mr. Pompier,” Stahl says respectfully. Vaike and Henry nod, smiling, so you do too. “Rest assured we’re all doing our best.”

“Hell, I know you’re all doing your best!” Basilio adds. “I mean, the first few nights at Old Basilio’s, I already knew I made a good investment for the week. But then Virion here-”

“Mr. Pompier,” he gently corrects.

“ _Virion_ here told me what he was doing here. You’d have asked me before, I’d have guessed he was trying to get in the pants of some high-class woman.” You _eep_ so hard you cover your mouth, keeping your eyes on Basilio so you don’t have to look at Mr. Pompier’s reaction. Basilio chuckles apologetically, arms folded, his visible eye settling.

Mr. Pompier clears his throat. “However, I told him a bit of the specifics around my goal, and he seemed to ease up after that.”

“Hell yes! After that, I gave him the week free so he could make up his damn mind! But I just wanted to tell you all that it’s been a hell of a time hosting you for as long as I did.” He shrugs. “Didn’t wanna be some big phantom type who spies on you from the balcony.”

That makes one of the two. “We really do appreciate it,” Stahl tells him. “After what Viri- Mr. Pompier and his assistant have told us, we knew we had to get serious.”

Referring to _his assistant_ Cherche gets your mind racing again, because she is not here, and she should be. Or at the very least, you’d feel safer if she was. Basilio is comforting, in a strange, loud way, but he can’t compete with the way she seems so respectful towards you.

Thankfully, before you can get up the courage to ask, Mr. Pompier says “Ah! And speaking of my assistant, I apologize that she couldn’t be here tonight. There was a fundraiser gala at the Ornacia Art Academy. Quite a high-society event, one where I needed someone to visit in my stead.” The others ooh at the mention of Ornacia, probably the most prestigious art college of the land, but all you can wonder is _why is Cherche doing something so important while he watches the same dance he watched before?_

You hear him talk some more, but his words leave your consciousness the moment they hit it. Everything feels off, and the room feels empty… or maybe it’s just too filled with him. You try and imagine a future with Mr. Pompier managing your dance troupe, but to your confusion, you can’t imagine that reality at all.

\---

You have the same clothes on that you entered the theater with, but you don’t feel like the same person. The whole thing feels… suspect. Not in a way that you can pinpoint, just… a woman’s intuition. Maybe the bad vibes you got from Mr. Pompier in the first place. You just know that the further you walk towards the bar with the others, the more you commit to the idea that may not be, rather than any ideas that may be for you.

The three non-Lon’qu boys are talking to each other, but Stahl talks less. He looks back at you now and again, curiosity giving way to concern. You kind of want him to say something to you, but you don’t know what. You normally rarely speak unless spoken to, but you don’t usually think quite so much either. Maybe he could do you a favor and read your mind, and tell you that you aren’t crazy.

You close your eyes, walking along the buildings of Old Town. There’s no rain in the street, and there’s none forecasted for the next few weeks. That’s the price you pay for being in the middle of summer- only a few stains remain to coat the streets into darker asphalt. You sigh, thinking of how things change, and how they will change back into being the same, and you wonder if you will be the same next year as you are now. If Mr. Pompier is going to let you down. If you will be in the same clothes with the same troupe walking to the same bar as the same Olivia.

The trance terrifies you.

“Guys,” you call out to them. Stahl looks at you right off, and a surprised Vaike and Henry swerve back, Henry’s grin electric. Lon’qu doesn’t stop until he realizes the others aren’t following him.

“Today’s been a long day,” you tell them. It’s weak enough to be a lie, so you stand defensively, hand on your purse. “So I’m just gonna head home and sleep it off. Okay?”

Stahl nods, even though he doesn’t believe you. He offers a smile and a cordial wave. Henry shrugs, not caring either way. “Later, Liv!” he says with a grin. Only Vaike looks at you suspiciously, raising his eyebrow and visibly thinking. You look at him, begging him to let you go, daring him to say something.

Vaike is not very smart, so he takes you up on the latter. “Are you sure, Liv?” He places his hand on his chin. “Because you’ve been acting weird.”

Henry looks at Vaike’s face, then recoils with a laugh. “Whoa, try not to think too much, you’ll hurt yourself!”

You look at him back. “I’m sure,” you insist, “and I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine,” he muses slowly, looking you up and down for fritzing wires.

“It’s not really your problem,” you insist, purse to your chest, pouting glare aimed at him.

“See, I’m just wondering what _your_ problem is.”

“None of your concern. Now let me be.” You turn away from him because apparently, all he will listen to are the sound of your footsteps fading away.

“That doesn’t answer my question!” he shouts after you.

“I wasn’t trying, thank you!” You wave sarcastically.

As you leave, Stahl tells him “Dude, just don’t worry about it. It’s her thing.” You’re once again grateful for him, but why it takes him to echo what you say to Vaike for him to settle down, you’ll never know. Okay, maybe you _know,_ but it makes no gods-damned sense. You don’t hear Vaike say anything else by the time he and the other boys are out of earshot.

You walk to the bus stop a stop down from the theater, trying to figure out how to get to the Ornacia Art Academy without wasting phone data. It’s downtown, in all of its prestigious skyscraper glory, but you can’t remember where. You went to a suburban community college, and you barely remember where that is, much less the most prestigious art college in all of Chon’sin. You give it your best think while waiting for the bus. Though there are cars driving by and you’re in the middle of the line of sight, you feel strangely isolated.

Your thoughts pour into a tunnel while you wait for the bus. All you can think is _why are you doing this? Why the hell are you doing this, Olivia?_ Here you are possibly worrying for nothing, or possibly going out on a fragile limb with a handsaw. You just can’t help it. This all feels like a pipe dream, a fictional reality so far from the routine you’re used to. You should just go home, really go home, and let things return to how they are.

The bus arrives, and something in you decides not to do that.


	6. The Death Of A Bachelor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd go to the ends of the earth for the right one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Went and changed the whole name up on you. Oops! Guess this really isn't a book to judge by its cover.

Settling in the backseat of the lonely bus, you finally give in and look up Ornacia on your phone. Luckily, it’s along the bus route you’re currently on, only an eight-block walk away. Even though the sun has just begun to set, you’re okay with walking through the city alone. It’s downtown, in the full view of everyone, which works well because you doubt you’ll get to know a single pair of those eyes.

That relaxes you the most. Not just the feeling of being alone, but being amongst people who will have nothing to do with you.

You don’t really have a game plan, not that you would draw one up. The whole situation is so fuzzy that the only thing you know is where Mr. Pompier said she was, and your only move is to hope she’s there. You watch intently for your stop, watching the precocious Old Town buildings morph into the towering heights of downtown that make you feel so small that it’s no wonder why no one notices you.

Right as the bus route starts converging with the rest, you ring the bell. The bus relieves its last passenger next to a stop with some twelve routes on it, and you yank your hair out of the way while you stare across at the bank tower you’re in front of. You place your headphones in, turn on your mix, and start walking across from where the bus was, next to trolley tracks not set to find a car until the break of day.

It’s getting late, so there are few people walking, the street vendors are sparse, and the only people lying on the street are homeless. Some ask you for change, and you hate how callous you are when you can’t help but walk away, afraid of them, afraid of interaction. Then you pass some with no sign, glaring at you and saying things you imagine you’re glad to not be able to hear. Things like that reinforce your fear of talking to strangers that you cannot predict or have a bad feeling about.

If anything makes you less of who you want to be, it’s life experience.

It’s certainly made you less of who you were. It just didn’t stop after that.

You notice someone else walking on the sidewalk because the sight is always uncommon at twilight. For the first time, it’s two people. You slow a little- though not slow enough to let anyone catch you- and hear them talking. Well, that’s not true- you hear one talking so loudly that it’s audible from across the street, over your headphones, so you kill the audio. There’s a pause for whenever the second person speaks. It’s never long. Five seconds at the longest. You turn away from them when you’ve looked too long, but can’t keep away for too long.

Then: “Olivia! _Mon coeur_!”

You jump a foot in the air as someone calls you. Any higher and you’d have leaped to the trolley power lines. “Who goes there?”

“It’s me, silly goose,” the voice- female- calls once more. Then, you feel footsteps hit the ground you’re on. As you go to look up, you feel two arms around your neck, and a face nuzzling yours. You’re horrified, looking across the street where one auburn-haired man looks more surprised than anything, his face the answer to a miscalculation.

“Wha-”

She turns her head in front of her. “Mr. Lowe- Ricken!” she calls in _that_ recognizable voice, hand on your abs. You _eep_ a little, holding hers a little too tight. “Care to join us?” In front of you now is a streak of pastel pink hair, curved to fit precisely around her head.

“Cherche?” you choke.

In a high voice not one-hundred-percent finished with puberty, he responds “It’s okay.” He waves her off in a way familiar to you like everything was a misunderstanding he was totally prepared for. “I’ll see you and Mr. Pomp around, all right?” You feel a nod at your shoulder. You can tell she’s smiling, and that it doesn’t reach her eyes. Soon enough, you see him walk away, and you breathe again. You pull apart from Cherche, even though you’re blinded by the recognition of how nice she felt. So close, so aggressive, so binding…

You shake your head out of your thoughts before they go down a road you hope she doesn’t follow.

“I apologize for the abruptness,” she tells you with a telltale lack of blush (whereas you’re sure you’re wearing three layers of embarrassment). “How fortuitous that you showed! I certainly did not expect to see you here and, needless to say…” She looks at the space where Ricken once was. “I doubt my amorous friend from the gala did as well.”

You giggle. “Always here to help a sister out, you know?”

You stop just short. _A sister? Don’t normalize that idea!_ You have enough straight “sisters” you used to crush on and rarely talk to anymore for one address book. So you blurt “it was nice!” because clearly going to the other extreme is a good idea. She catches it and giggles, which embarrasses you so much that you wish you could turn a knob that turns down _Olivia_ so much that she disappears.

You avert the subject. “So who was that kid?”

“That would be one Ricken Lowenthal Junior,” she says, hand in the pocket of thin black suit pants. She’s wearing a pink vest over a long sleeve black shirt, and her hair rests in a ponytail like yours. (What were you worried about? That outfit's so gay that it hurts.) “The son of the president of the OAA. He… is certainly an optimistic young man, I’ll concede, if not the best at reading body language.”

“I mean, he seemed to get it by the end!”

Cherche chuckles. “I should hope,” she says, eyes on her open-toed dress shoes. “I admit I’m not the best actress. The main stage was never meant for me.” She looks up at you. “Speaking of which, I trust tonight’s performance went well?”

Now it’s your turn to look away. “It was nice,” you say, voice quiet. “The troupe did their best, you know? Especially with Mr. Pompier watching. We all want to… you know, look like a good choice.”

She nods softly. “I can understand that. I do wish I’d have seen it!”

You nod your head enthusiastically. “I wish you had too! I would have given ext-” You stop, hand over your mouth. Cherche tilts her head at you, smiling, giving you the floor to speak again. Hell, you’re already this far in. You may as well go for it while you accept that you’ll look a fool.

“C.A.?”

She raises an eyebrow, but that’s the extent. You’d hoped to catch her off guard, you admit, but she doesn’t seem too surprised. “Cherche Aile-Rouge,” she says. “I assume you appreciated the rose?”

“Right!” you burst. “I really did. Like…” How to transition this. Transitions are important, you’ve spent enough time dancing to pay homage to this, but in personal conversation, you never manage to transition particularly well. The more you talk to Cherche, though, the less you feel comfortable planning anything.

“This is an odd question, but…”

You die out, the words fleeing back down your throat. Cherche smiles as she looks at you, eyes burning comfortably warm, waiting for you to speak. She’s far too patient! “Gods, this is awkward,” you blurt, sweating. “It’s just hot, you know!”

“Quite all right!” she says, smiling with eyes closed. “I’ll wait.”

You sigh, smiling weakly. “I mean, you sure? You could be waiting forever. I always get a little flustered with… things like these, you know?”

She giggles. “As do I.”

“Asking people out?”

After you blurt that little gem out, you bite your lip shut and try and look anywhere else. You suppose really the only way you could ask her out was by accident. She doesn’t look surprised in the least. Gods, were you that obvious? “I, uh…” you start, but you aren’t sure what. Because you didn’t mean to say that, but you damn sure aren’t gonna take it back.

She looks at you with endeared eyes. “Yes, that exactly. I admit I haven’t an overabundance of experience in the formalities of it all, but... it’s enough.”

“Enough?” you whisper.

“Enough that I would hear you.”

You meet her eyes and take a deep breath. “Oh,” you gasp. “Well, that’s good. I need, like, a few takes with things honestly.” She smiles back, one end higher than the other, enjoying the catch of her lure.

“Uhm, Cherche,” you start. “Would you mind if I take you on a date?”

She looks at you, so perfect, so lovely, and so respectful of your oddities. You’re sure she’ll say yes. So why are you so anxious still?

Then: “Do you have any time at the moment?”

You’re surprised by the request, and your eyes probably widen by the way she laughs in surprise, unplanned. So she doesn’t feel like she made a mistake, you say “Oh! I’m not doing anything, it’s just- well, you’re at the gala…” Oh, so now you care about the freaking gala! “And, like, a busy woman, and I know Mr. Pompier is probably looking for you. I don’t wanna mess that up for you, you know?”

She steps closer, maintaining eye contact. Her smile is a little more faded, resigned, like something weighs on her. “Did I say something wrong?” you ask, body tense.

In response, she takes your hand, delicate and distant, but willing to be more. “Miss Olivia,” she says. “I would be honored to accept your date, would you have me.”

You told yourself you weren’t about to plan anything with her. Turns out, you meant it.

You place your fingers in between hers and take a deep breath. “Thank you, Miss Cherche.”


	7. Looking For A Better Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Probably at the end of her lure.

All it takes is three words: “come with me” and you’re walking with her, side by side, still holding her hand. You use the time to try and figure out what just happened because there’s no way the attractive woman who’s caught your eye and your breath actually is out on a date with you.

Hell, she can take you anywhere.

The two of you follow the trolley tracks through the buildings. There’s no one around to watch, a sensation both strange and freeing because even when you’re offstage there are too many eyes on you. “To be honest,” she admits “I cannot say I planned for us to do anything. I am not entirely sure where we are right now.”

“Oh,” you say. “Are you new to Chon’sin?”

“Mr. Pompier travels a lot,” she explains simply, making him sound like a mysterious figure and not her direct employer. “I’m sure you know this.”

You nod stiffly. “If you need a day or two to think of something, you know, I’ll be here. I just don’t want you to think you have to rush on my behalf.”

She doesn’t stop, but you can see her thinking, free hand on the bridge of her nose. She looks doubtful. Then: “My schedule is… a little odd lately. This is the only free time I am guaranteed.”

You coo dramatically. “And you’re spending it on me?”

She giggles. “You sound so honored!”

“I mean,” you admit, trying not to study the smooth sidewalk you’re both traversing. “It’s sweet.”

She looks ahead, closing her eyes briefly. “Rest assured, this is for my benefit as well.”

Your breath catches. “Really?”

“Promise.”

That’s all she says, and all she needs to because you’re so busy sputtering at the idea that getting to know you is worth any trouble she is getting into. As you cross the street, all you can think of is _me? Really? Me?_

You should explain to her why it’s a bad idea. Instead, you let her take you into the only tea shop that you would imagine to still be open at this time. “I hope you don’t mind,” she tells you. “I was thirsty.” As she opens the door with purpose, she says “There are drinks other than tea if you don’t want a random energy spike this late.”

You shake your head. “I spent all day on my feet. You have no idea how nice iced tea sounds right now.”

“Excellent!” She smiles with her eyes closed. You feel them open on you as you move your purse down your arm to your hand. “Oh, no,” she says dismissively. “I’ve got this.”

“You sure?” You were gonna get a gigantic tea, and you’re so parched it may not have even made it out of the building.

“You will find that I am quite devoted to my convictions,” she responds with a gleam in her eye.

You gesture grandly to the counter where one employee waits. “Then by all means!” She walks up with pep in her step, meeting the eyes of the staff member.

You like the way that you two are.

\---

You manage to keep some tea in the cup, though to be fair, it’s so large you would be concerned over your hydration habits if you didn’t. Cherche holds a brown plastic bag around one wrist, and you take in that she has no purse for the first time. In fact, all she seems to have is her phone and the slim wallet that she took out of her pocket when paying for drinks. Other than that, nothing. You wonder if that defines her, what her self-definition is.

Cherche is a bigger mystery than her employer sometimes.

Cherche reaches into the plastic bag and takes a donut. “Pardon my manners,” she says. “I haven’t eaten anything substantial today, to be honest.”

“ _Same_ ,” you respond. Then you think about it. Were there no avenues for the personal assistant of a wealthy socialite to get a bite to eat? You decide it’s none of your business, but what Cherche says resonates with you as much as the things she doesn’t say.

You both walk down the street. It still feels like it’s in in the upper sixties, and it’s slowly approaching ten o’clock. You don’t even feel a need for a jacket. Despite being in the middle of downtown on a wide street, there are no cars, no traffic, and no streetlights. There’s a billboard for a pop radio station that you are woefully familiar with. The trolley turns right into its own pocketed yard, a deactivated car resting on the rails, hanging onto the electric wire.

The buildings are worn down, the dregs hidden in the corner of downtown. You know your apartment is relatively nearby- a ten-minute bus ride ahead. You would normally skedaddle the hell off to bed, but not today. This is your stage. You two are the only signs of life, and what little light that comes from nearby windows are all that illuminate you. Through it, you can see her toothy smile, more peaceful than you’ve ever seen her. There’s a donut in her hand that she almost puts in the plastic bag before she remembers your uneaten food is in there. There’s barely any light but a lot to glean from her.

She was wrong. The main stage suits her well.

\---

Cherche didn’t seem to have a plan for your date, but its rawness makes it better in your mind. The two of you climb the last two floors of stairs after the elevator ends. Soon, you’re on the roof of some building, drinks in hand, your purse and her plastic bag in your laps as you sit against a propped up skylight that’s sturdy, if not comfortable.

You’re in the get-to-know-you phase when you realize that you don’t really have much to get to know. You know how you became you, how time helped to throw a shy, timid, self-loathing little girl out of the closet and onto her feet, dancing for the slightest hint of praise and validation before dancing became the only interesting part of you. You know all of that, but can’t even begin to want to explain it.

You answer questions from her the best you can, but you must sound less and less interesting as you go.

“How long have you been dancing?” she asks, taking a sip of her tea, the last bit of steam flittering into the night.

You shrug. “Gosh, maybe, like… I don’t remember. Since I was a kid. My parents always knew I had a gift, but I think I was, like, a teen before I took it seriously. I thought it was just a thing I did, and that my parents were just being nice parents who just like everything their kid does even if it sucks. But, like, no, I was actually pretty good.”

“I see,” she responds. “I should hope you still have a good relationship with them!”

You nod. “I mean, as best as a twenty-something person could have. We don’t talk a _super_ super amount but we still keep in touch and they’re really supportive of everything I do, even if they don’t get it. I guess…” You look at the concrete and gravel atop the roof. “That’s why I try to be a success story. Because if there are, like… things about me they don’t get, I think they’ll see me do it well and, like, get it.”

Cherche smiles. “I do hope that comes to pass.” She looks at the sky, distant, thinking on something. It has to be something about herself. You know that sort of distant, unconscious look into the sky.

“So, how did it all work for you?” you ask.

“Hmm?” She turns to you.

“You know… like, how did you get from where you started to where you are?” She closes her eyes, setting her tea down and clasping her hands together. “If, like, that’s not an invasive question or anything, I’m sorry!”

She smiles, endeared but not quite happy. “Don’t worry,” she says. “You’re fine.” Before you can say anything, she continues. “I suppose, the Cherche that you see today was formed by an upbringing of serving under people with more power and purpose than us. We’re a functional breed, us Aile-Rouge. Our place in the machine is always helping it operate, not deciding its purpose.” She describes it without passion, and truth be told you can understand why she seems unsatisfied. Though you wouldn’t tell her, you’re unsatisfied for her.

“Is that how you met Mr. Pompier?” you ask.

She raises an eyebrow. “Quite so. Virion Pompier has always been a friend of the family. I’ve been his personal assistant since coming of age about…” she counts on her fingers for a concerning amount of time. “Eleven years ago?”

You do quick math on your fingers. Coming to 29, you sigh with relief. “Okay, so you’re not too much older than me.”

She smirks, a spark in her eye. “Oh my. Did I appear to be an old maid?”

You gasp, but from what you can tell about Cherche, it’s best to play it off. “See, I was just worried I would be the baby between the two of us.” She giggles, eyes closed with a smile. You laugh weakly as well. “Yeah, I mean... you know, I’m still growing up.”

“I believe I still have some growing to do as well,” she admits. She drinks the last of her tea, which has gone lukewarm by now, freeing both her hands. You won’t lie, you definitely noticed.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, before she scoots over, her leg touching yours. You blush immediately, like really blush. She looks at you, saying “my, my.” She giggles again, but it’s less coordinated than usual. It’s a tease, and you grin.

“I mean, I’m not complaining,” you blurt, flustered. She smiles. Next to you, you take her in with the context of yourself. She is taller than you, just barely so, and broad in some ways; yet at the same time, sinewy and restrained. Her body is more narrow than yours in some places and thicker in others, and everything about her- her hair, her clothes, the way she moves- is designed to be the second largest in any crowd she is in. There is so much character within her compared to you, who flows where the breeze takes her. Even in name, she is Cherche, one of a kind, but there are likely a few million Olivias just as aimless as you.

“You have such a lovely name,” you say. Your two heads lean together softly.

“Thank you so much,” she says, moving a hand atop yours. “It comes from the expression ‘ _Cherchez la Femme_ ’.”

“It does?”

“It very much does. Translated it means ‘look for the woman’. In short, it means that when a man is acting suspicious or troubled, look for the woman, because she is likely the reason why.”

“Oh,” you muse. “Pardon me, but… that’s… I mean, I think...”

She turns slightly to you. “Degrading?”

Meekly, you nod. “I guess, like… I just hate that, you know? The idea that if something goes wrong, it’s automatically my fault.”

“You say that like you’ve experienced it before, if I may be so bold.”

You glower, folding one arm across your chest in defense. You think of the boys in the troupe, and how- good or bad- they treat you as the standout, the _reason._ Like all your attempts to fade into the background aren’t quite enough. You can’t shake that idea, that trouble will follow you, and Cherche will learn to regret her decision.

She squeezes your hand. “What’s said between you and yourself is not my conversation,” she says. “I’ll keep from intruding.”

“Huh.” This is bizarre, being left to think through things on your own. “I think I need diffusion lessons from you, that was good.”

She smiles. “I try.” After a second, she says “I always liked the idea, you know? Reclaimed it in a way, I suppose. The idea of being the problem is fine with me. Some men in the world… I could not be happier being the reason for the misfortune that they need.”

You snort. “Oh my god, right?” An awkward second. “I mean, I like that idea. But I can’t pull it off. I just get… fed up, I guess. I’m not, like, an avenger. I just… wanna sleep, dance, and be happy sometimes.”

She turns to the sky ahead of her. “Those are admirable goals. In a way, it is what all should want.”

You blush again. “Gosh, I… really, like…” You’re not eloquent like her, so you just rest against her and take her in, thanking her quietly. She nods and takes your hand.

“I regret that we don’t have the night to sit up here. Virion should want to know of me soon.”

“Damn.” You can’t believe it’s going to be over soon, and you aren’t fully sure why. You just know that this moment feels eternal.

Her expression darkens, as though she is being pulled from this moment as well. Then, she smiles again. “For now, though… we have the stars.”

You smile. As impermanent as the night feels, she is right. You have right now. You notice her look up at the sky, relaxed, tired, less formal in her business attire. The plastic bag lies in her lap, the cup by her right leg, her left pressed against yours.

She smiles wider. “The stars are up there.”

“I’m looking at something better.”

You giggle at yourself. You’re such a sap, but you rarely sound so comfortable. Cherche blushes, her smile shaky and her eyes closed. “How charming,” she admits, unsure but grateful.

You don’t know why you don’t tell her it’s true. Something tells you that she needs to know. You suppose that if you said all you wanted to say in that moment, you would be scared of you more than she would be.

You’re just amazed you got this far.

\---

The two of you are at the base of the building. Your purse has flopped over your arm, and you forgot to eat your portion of snack food, so you gratefully take Cherche’s plastic bag with your other arm. “You may want to put that in your purse,” she advises.

“This ain’t making it home,” you counter.

She laughs. “Speaking of, will _you_ make it home safely?”

“Bus line will take me close enough,” you tell her. “I should be asking _you_ that!”

She shrugs. “I’ve done it before. I will do it again.”

Your brow furrows at another one of those Cherche expressions where she says something that is barely passable, with a concerning amount of mystery behind it. “As long as you’re sure.”

She nods with a smile. “I will have the memories of tonight to keep me company. It was lovely.”

Then your brow releases and you blush at another one of those artfully composed and impeccably delivered Cherche compliments. “T-thank you,” you stammer. “I really enjoyed myself.”

“I’m glad to hear such!”

The two of you are quiet for too long, looking at each other, at a loss for words. Your mind grabs at the space between you for the nearest words to hold onto, to keep from drifting away. “When can I see you again?” Her smile is fraught with uncertainty. You nervously add “Uhm, I mean, if you want to.”

“I absolutely want to,” she says, a fire in her eyes. “And I have quite the talent of getting what I want.”

Gods damn your eyes, that’s the hottest thing someone has ever said to you. She senses the ardor in your eyes and smiles. Whatever she wants, she can have.

“I don’t suppose you kept the notecard?”

“With the rose? Definitely.”

“If I may.”

You reach into your purse, dig around, and pull it out, thumb on the vine-like ridge. She reaches into her pocket and pulls a pen latched onto an unseen watch pocket inside. Quickly, she writes a series of numbers on the paper you hold. They’re thin enough that you resolve to trace over them when you get home. It’s not every day that you get a beautiful woman’s digits.

“Call me with a time and place,” she says. “From there, I’m sure we can work it out.”

You smile. “If you’re sure you can be so loosey-goosey about it. What with your schedule...”

She looks up at you with a strange craving in her eye. You almost flinch, but for some reason, you’ll take it from her. That’s why you dance, to earn the praise you can’t always fish for. This is not only earned but wanted. The way she looks at you says what she does not. Among other things, it says that what she has proposed is a foolproof idea as far as she is concerned.

She walks by you and softly kisses you on the cheek. You stand in shock, graceless, wondering if she meant to kiss someone else because she _damn sure_ could not have meant to kiss _you_ , could she? You realize as she walks away that you’re smiling like a dumbstruck fool, hand at your cheek now that she is not.

“Until then, _mon coeur_!” she calls back at you, and you hold up your hand in a wave until she is gone. When she is, she’s all you can think about, and you can barely walk straight on the way to the bus stop.


	8. A Little Girl In The Middle Of The Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You need things to feel real. They often feel like they're about to disappear.

You look a little better going into the theater the next day. Not _all_ that different- you’re wearing a pair of black tights, a short white skirt, a tight black shirt, a large white scarf, and a sweet white headband (you may have a theme going). These are the type of clothes you’d wear anyways on a nice day (save the scarf, that was just for the hell of it) but today, you have more motivation to be beautiful. To feel beautiful. It would be easy to say that it’s because of your date last night, and it _is_ inspired by that. More than anything, though, it’s for you; to try and feel how others feel about you. How you hope she feels about you.

Now you’ve gotten to the point where she’s taken up considerable real estate in your mind. _Congrats, Olivia, it’s been three and a half days._ As you walk into the back room behind the stage, you may be shaking a little. That’s not like you, to get that much into someone that quickly. You’re a little embarrassed at how obsessed you are. Either you’re doing something very, very wrong, or very, very right. There’s no in-between.

Henry is the first to wave at you as you set your purse on the cushions and flop next to it. Your hair flies in the air and settles on your face. You gently wave back at the sky. The next thing you know, his head is above yours, white hair flopping down, an irremovable grin on his face.

You shriek, nearly bumping into him. “Henry!” you shout. “Personal space!”

“Nyaha!” Since he doesn’t move, you jerk your head from beneath his. You’re used to Henry doing this type of annoying personal space violation to everyone, but it’s still never fun. He’s such an odd kid; ultimately harmless but still aggravating for someone who keeps a sizable distance from others. You sit in a chair by the mirror, purse in hand. You still feel Henry’s eyes on you and sigh, steeling yourself for a conversation.

“You okay?” he asks, lilt still on his voice. “Cause you’re all shaky and stuff.” You close your eyes and shrug, trying to nonverbally convince him to drop it. However, Henry is Henry, and has never found a useless thing he wasn’t stubbornly dedicated to. “Are you _sure?_ Because you’re not usually all shaky. Sullen and withdrawn, maybe, bu-”

“Sullen?”

Henry laughs when you swing back to him, pouting. “Yeah!” he says. “Like, whenever we talk to you you’re just like-” Exaggeratedly, he sighs, slumping his shoulders and pouting quite like you are now. It looks comically unnatural on him.

“I’m not sullen!” you protest weakly. Maybe you are, but you’ll never tell them. “Maybe you’re all just annoyi-”

“Oh my gods, I gotta take a picture of this!” you hear Vaike shout from the hall before laughing and walking forward. Henry starts to crack up as well, and you turn back to the mirror. “You looked like such a fucking clown! It was funnier than anything!”

“Only for you, honey,” Henry jokes.

They chat with each other and fade into the background as you face the mirror. You pick up the brush Vaike used the other day, pick the few blond hairs out of it, and then run it through your hair. You already did your hair before you left, but there’s always tangles, and you never quite get rid of all of them. It’s a constant struggle, but the more you brush through it all, the closer to perfect it gets.

Your repetitive trance is interrupted by Stahl walking in, boots clomping on the floor. He plops on the cushions gracelessly, and you hear a backpack hit the ground. “Hey, everyone.” The other two stop talking and greet him, and eventually, you do too, Vaike’s brush in hand.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

You place it on the desk by the mirror. “Huh. That it is.”

“I have a little update,” he says, holding his phone. Gods, his phone case is massive. It’s like a murder weapon. “So someone from another theater gave us an offer. We perform there for a week, that’s a grand each.”

 _A grand._ You smile at the idea. A grand is twice as much as what you usually make in a week. A grand would go towards rent and your gym membership. Maybe you can put a little towards getting a new TV. Maybe you can even set a few aside so that your dates don’t continue to be “Cherche covers everything and you two sit on a roof”. Not that you mind roofs, but you really should do something to cover things every now and again.

Then Vaike brings it down quite violently to Earth. “But aren’t we gonna sign on with Mr. Pomp?”

Stahl scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, so, that’s why I was conflicted. Like, it’s a nice idea, but we have no clue what the next week will look like. We don’t know if he would take us on board next week, if he would wait for a while, or really what is going on.”

“We don’t,” you muse. “I’m worried.”

“Mm?”

“Yeah, like…” You’ve learned to hate talking, but this is your future on the line. “I think if he was more serious he would tell us more. Honestly, I’m not even sure if he’s going to take us on board.”

Stahl shrugs. “I mean, I’m not exactly classy, you know? I don’t know how business stuff works. All I know is how to faith, so I’ll have faith if I need to.”

You look to the ceiling. “I guess,” you say. “It just feels too good to be true.”

Vaike sighs. “If it's too good to be true, we'll just go to that theater! But for now, Teach is thinking it sounds really nice.”

You roll your eyes. “Where did you even come up with Teach, anyway?”

“Easy, all,” Stahl cuts in. Henry salutes him with a grin, and you go back to looking away. “We'll keep it on standby, but I really think we should stay optimistic. You know, even if we don't pack our bags, just plan what you would put in them.”

Before anything more is said, two more figures enter through the nearest door and wind up in front of you all. You move your chair to face where they will be. Virion enters your sight, which already sets you on edge. Then Cherche follows, and you're not sure if that makes you feel better or worse. You've never seen the two together after you and Cherche connected. Placing these two new characters in your life together just seems incorrect.

“My friends of the _Galactic Shadows!_ ” he begins. Cherche fakes an excited smile, raising her eyebrows. The boys present turn to him. You look at Cherche, an anchor in whatever storm this is. She’s dressed in a gray blazer over a white button-up this time, as well as a cloth-coated headband, tight dress pants, and thin, short heels. You smile just a little, because you’re trying not to gawk. She doesn't return it too obviously, but you can tell that she’s looking you over ever-so-slightly. The moment ends barely after it begins, but she looks at you every now and again with a comforting glance, as if to keep you from shaking any further.

Suddenly, Virion looks at you. “My sweet, I can only count four dancers here. Do you, pray tell, know where the fifth is?”

You take two seconds to breathe and eventually shake your head with a tiny eep. Cherche smiles at you, and you center yourself with a breath before you get too nervous.

Virion turns to Stahl. “I trust this will not be a hindrance?”

Stahl shakes his head. “Probably just running behind.”

Henry stifles a snort, and you swing around to give him the fear of the gods with your glare. It never works on him.

Cherche smiles and turns to Virion. “I remember that particular man being…” Looking for the softest answer she can, she finishes with “quite an experience.”

“Quite,” Virion repeats. “I do worry about what his level of commitment would be, were we to take him on with the rest of you.”

The way he speaks is so casual and bored with how blithely he teases the possibility of _not taking on Lon’qu,_ already considering you as individual pieces and not the full deal. Cherche smirks. “Come now, Virion, the day is young. Besides, do you honestly think anyone would turn down this offer?”

You gulp and force a nod. Cherche tilts her head but does nothing more. She reads you disarmingly easy, and she turns back to Virion’s side with a concern that he cannot see.

“Yes, being concerned is somewhat silly of me,” Virion notes with a hint of sarcasm. Cherche recognizes it with another toothy smile, finger on cheek. He faces the four of you. “Regardless! I want you all to do your damndest! I myself am doing my damndest to work everything out time-wise, and rest assured this is a change as large for me as it is for you.”

“A change?” Vaike notes, trying to mute his grin.

“Yes! I’m so glad you picked up on that!” Virion exclaims, pointing at Vaike, who beams like a schoolkid rewarded for solving a math problem.

“Mr. Pompier is currently in the process of finalizing preparations,” Cherche announces. “Rest assured that you will almost certainly be taken on board.”

The three boys cheer and high-five, and you do your best to smile, but it’s shaky. Virion looks at you, and you shrink back. Cherche notices your discomfort when looking at you and tilts her head again, holding her hands together. That’s probably when you realize that being on the road means being near Cherche on a semi-regular basis, and you pull off an actual smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Pompier,” Stahl responds, grinning ear to ear. “I think we all appreciate it. And when Lon’qu comes by, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled as well.”

“Or as close as he gets!” Henry jokes. “Nyaha!”

“I’m pleased to hear it!” Virion responds, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “I’ll get you all the details when they’re ready to be delivered, but rest assured I will be happy to take you on board!”

“We’re very grateful,” Stahl assures him. “Thank you, Mr. Pompier.”

“Thanks a ton!” Vaike says, jovial.

“Absolutely!” Henry says.

You squeak out a tiny thank-you.

“Cherche and I have a large amount of business to take care of today,” Virion explains “so we will be in and out.”

Cherche fakes a grin, probably because he has decided that only _he_ will be in and out. Curtly, she explains “We’ve a land deal to work out. Quite busy work.” It doesn’t sound even passably authentic, but you’re probably reading too deeply into it. “We hope to see you again soon!”

The others offer farewells as the two exit, his stride gallant and hers confident. Soon, it’s the four of you, and everyone is grinning save you, because you think that he clarified next to nothing, while the boys think he answered everything. Even while he says that things will happen, you still don’t know how it will. You still don’t know what to do. Most insultingly, you don’t know if the boys will listen to you.

This is your life on the line. It changes depending on what you do. You aren’t sure if what you say will make sense, but you have to try.

Hesitantly, you say  “Still think we should play it safe, you know? Keep the offer for the week open.”

Vaike raises an eyebrow. “What do we need it for? We’re set!”

“Like, just in case prep takes more than a week,” you respond. “Besides, you know, a grand sounds nice.”

“We don’t need extra swag,” he replies, folding his arms. “Didn’t you hear Virion? This is almost certainly gonna be a thing. Whatever happens now, we’re gonna be set!”

“I just wanna be cautious,” you argue, but you’re being drained of energy quite quickly.

“Of what?” Vaike challenges. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? A step towards the big time.”

You throw your hands up. “Vaike, for the love of Naga, that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Stahl cuts in again. “What he means, Liv,” he says, voice straining to be comforting. “Is that this going to get us closer to being legit dancers. We should start to really get used to that idea, not be a routine-for-hire, you know?”

Vaike collapses against the cushions. “Sure, sure,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling. You nod listlessly and comb through your hair some more. Stahl almost certainly did not say what Vaike meant to say, and he’s very wrong. The closer you get to accepting this deal, the more you feel like _Virion’s investment,_ not _Olivia the dancer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to any Vaike fans that he's a jerk I just found out that people make characters they like jerks and that is so not what I am doing here (though look at me FINALLY figuring things out in fanfiction seven years in)


	9. Singing "Where Does Time Go From Here?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things you wish weren't real to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so uhm, this is the scene with the barely repressed sexual creepiness. If that sort of thing turns you off, do not feel bad at all for skipping this chapter, though its affects will be felt through the other chapters. Seriously, I won't even begrudge you, bubbies. <3

When you land, you trip.

You can’t wrap your mind around practice, which isn’t good. Especially today, since tonight’s show starts at 5 and not 7, meaning that you have less time to get it down. Your practice is too distracted by your thoughts. You wanted a change. This is what you asked for. So why does it feel so wrong? All you want to know is why you feel so unsatisfied.

You shake your head with forceful vigor, ready to beat the thoughts out of your head with a stick. Empty your mind through any means necessary, and just focus on dancing. The idea of dancing, of pure heart and clear mind, is what you love. It’s what you miss.

You count from three and start again, replaying the song clip from that part of the routine in your head. You run through the practice room and jump, spinning as you do. You land, and then your mind goes blank. The steps and the song disappear for a moment, and you stop, muscles relaxing.

The transition is the most important part to you. You can dance your pretty little heart out, but if you stumble about between your steps it doesn’t matter how impeccable they are. You’re going to look like a fool.

Kind of like how you are now.

Your hand is in your chin as you replay the routine in your head. Vaike has a point; everything in the routine you’ve done hundreds of times before- on the stage and off. You shouldn’t have to think of the steps for it.

Luckily, the next step of the routine fleshes out in your mind. You replay the song in your head and go for the spinning jump again. You land, spread your arms apart, then raise them above your head. You stretch backward, torso to the sky, head tilted backward and upside down.

Then, as soon as you stop, you dare to start again.

You jump and flip through the air, springing back to your feet, arms in front of you like you’re possessed. Your grin is maddening.  

You never used to get that done before, but now it’s disarmingly easy. You used to have to handstand in between the two, but you managed to polish that out halfway in _Galactic Shadows’_ run. Whenever you can make your routines better, your heart soars. The boys don’t seem to pay the act too much mind, but moments like that help you think of yourself as _Olivia the dancer_. What a difference from other moments when you doubt that claim.

You hear your door crack open and break from your trance, eyes widened. “Please go!” you plead with whomever it is.

“Be still, my dear!”

Your eyes widen and your heart stops as the pet name ushers Virion in. He’s dressed in the same ruffled shirt and black pantaloons that he wears with the frequency of a cartoon character from the 1800s. Graying blue hair flowing behind him, he steps on the carpet, quietly pushing the door just to.

“Y-y-yes, Mr. Pompier?”

Virion looks at you with an uneasy smile. “My sweet,” he says. “I just wanted to… check in on you, I suppose you could say.”

You try and shrug casually and nearly break your shoulder. “Well… consider me checked.”

“Still, I know that your enthusiasm for…” he gestures around him. “Everything going on… is not what I expected.”

Shit, he knows? You have to convince yourself that he’s not a mindreader, despite being a mental invasive species. Though maybe you show what you think of it all with your face. “Uhm, I’m just shy,” you offer. “I kind of react to everything that way.”

Virion’s smile widens. “So is that to say you have no problems with the arrangement?”

You nod, then shake your head. “N-no, Mr. Pompier,” you lie. “Everything’s fine!”

“Splendid!” With that, he places his hands down on your shoulders. You bite your lip and hold your breath to keep from screaming, especially because Virion’s thumbs quite conveniently found the spots near your neck that your skinsuit doesn’t cover.

“You’re a fantastic dancer,” he assures you. “A beauty on stage. The stage radiates from the light within your soul.” His flattery turns into nothingness as you hear it. “Why, were I a man of less dignity, I would ask you to marry me!”

“Eep!”

Though you count yourself lucky that his sentence did not end worse.

“I apologize for intruding,” he says. “What was it you were doing?”

“Practicing.”

“Ah, yes!” Virion booms. “I admire your dedication! The men present are busy doing other things. The blond one was fixated on combing his hair every time I passed by him.”

You can’t help but snort. “Yeah… s-sounds like him.”

Virion nods, emboldened. “I don’t suppose you could dance for me just a touch?”

You jump at the idea, leaping back from his hands. Virion’s smile disappears. He looks… blank. You can’t read an expression on him. All you can see is the crack in the door that didn’t quite shut. “Sorry!” you shout. “I just… I don’t really do, like, private shows, you know?”

Virion chuckles, but there’s no joy in it. “Oh, my dame, you need not think of it as such! I just want to… ease our relationship. Perhaps endear each other to the other.” He raises an eyebrow. “I think that would be important to do, yes?”

You shake your head, then catch yourself again and nod. “I just… I’ve never danced for a lone person in my life.”

“Not one?” he asks, bridging the distance between you. “Surely there’s been a man in your life that has seen you dance?” You giggle nervously. By the gods, he missed the mark. “In a way no one else has?”

“N-n-not…” You lose your words as he steps closer.

“You are such a gorgeous little bit of light,” he breathes, walking closer even as you step away. Even though he doesn’t touch you, you feel his presence, hear his breath, smell about a gallon of misapplied cologne emanating from him. You know he will not get further away. You fear him getting closer.

“You forget to shut this?”

Virion hears the voice and takes a couple of steps back from you. You’re too relieved to say anything, but you can’t help but smile. Giggle a little from the relief. “Who goes there?” he asks.

Basilio clomps in with all his camp and power. His bright blue suit covers him from head to toe and his collar sports fur this time. He looks at Virion and laughs. “Ah! Virion!” he greets him with a wave. You see murder in his clear eye until he closes it, smile friendly.

“Sir,” Virion responds with a bow. “I hope I didn’t disturb you! Surely you don’t have a problem with me being in the training rooms, do you?”

He laughs. The bark consumes the room. “I don’t,” he says. “Miss Olivia, however, she likes training alone.”

“Oh!” Virion responds. “I hadn’t meant to intrude! I wanted to converse with her about the deal. Clear the air, as it were.”

You look at Basilio with eyes on fire, frowning deeply. Basilio nods at you. Then, turning to Virion again: “That’s all well and dandy, but I think you can do that outside of the training room. Don’t want to distract her or anything.”

Virion grins at you with ignorant warmth- like you have done nothing to diffuse his affection. Turning away, he tells Basilio. “But of course! How foolish of me! I need her to dance for me tonight.” You fume as he walks away, not once looking at you as he leaves the room. Basilio looks back at you. You try and tone down your fear, but you’re shaking and giving him a look of warning. He’s smiling, but his eye is angry at something that isn’t you.

The two of them leave you to practice, but you can’t get back to it right away. You’re still shaking, hanging onto a bar and waiting out the storm. You clench your fists and try to let it pass. It wasn't that bad, you rationalize. It didn't get that bad. Besides, there's no proof that it would get that bad.

After ten minutes of staying in place and doing the same thing as you did the minutes before, you lean up. You don’t feel strong, but you feel capable. Right now, you know that you have a dance to do.

\---

You can’t get the way he looks at you out of your mind.

You dance, yes, but the thrill is gone. You perform the movements, yes, and don’t falter, but it’s all based on memory. It’s rather lifeless and empty. If anyone cheers more than usual or shouts empty declarations of love from the audience, you don’t hear it. You aren’t sure you’d want to anyways. All you can think of is his face, sitting in the front row, eyebrow raised, communicating that he knows the dance is for him. He’s not alone in the training room, goading you to entertain him, but he still knows that, despite the crowd, you are dancing to appease him.

You miss the idea of dancing for yourself. Even if a crowd watched, at least you used to dance for you.

When you leave the stage, you congratulate yourself on making it through the night despite you wanting to throw up on the stage the second your eyes brushed up against his and his alone. Then, as the boys start celebrating another night where according to Stahl “we just showed we do what we do well”, you remember what they’re celebrating. Not being dancers, but being _Virion’s dancers_ . You don't feel like you're _Olivia’s anything._

“I’m really sick, guys,” is your excuse as you immediately start walking to the dressing room.

All you hear is Henry saying “she almost threw up on stage? That would have been _so cool!_ ” as you run to your dressing room. You slam the door behind you, lock it, and then retch into the small trash can that holds old powder puffs and makeup palettes before you start sobbing. No tears fall from your eyes, and no material is in your vomit. A pervasive sense of emptiness is all you feel. You clutch the rim of the trash can, trying to call upon different de-stressing techniques even though you don’t remember them. You just want this anxiety to go away.

You think you know just how you can.

You kneel, stand up, and make sure your door is locked. Then, you remove your skinsuit and face your clothes, all hanging across the center bar of the rack. You put them on slowly- the cut top, the leggings, the skirt, the gold bands, the headbands, and the scarf- and enjoy the way they feel, treasure the power of your own decision.

Besides, the more you wrap your scarf around yourself, the more comforting it is.

You take a deep breath and pull out the card, fingers on the ridge. True to your word, you did trace over the numbers (twice). You pull out your phone and punch them in.

Two rings, then she picks up.

“You’ve reached the personal assistant of Mr. Virion Pompier. How can I assist you today?”

You grit your teeth at the name before saying “This is... “ Ugh. You’re no good on the phone. A few seconds of silence, then: “What I mean is, this is Olivia speaking to you.”

A moment of silence takes over before her response. “You’ve reached Cherche Aile-Rouge.” Even as professional as she tries to sound, you hear a lilt on her voice that wasn’t there before. “How can I assist you, _mon coeur_?”

You giggle. You like that better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR I DON'T HATE VIRION EITHER 
> 
> but if I barely knew him and he pulled his flirty side out
> 
> oof


	10. Scared of Crowded Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you don't feel real at all.

She’s in front of the Chon’sin tower for the Valmese International Bank in the same clothes that you saw her in before. Across the street, you gawk at it for a second before walking to her. It’s not like you’ve never seen it before. It’s downtown. You’ve seen at least a story or two walking by or on the bus, but now you take in the magnitude because now you know someone who’s been on at least the third floor.  

“Miss Olivia!” you hear her call from across the street. You blink, rushing across the street to meet her, standing near her with a shaky smile. It’s not like your last visit, since it’s two hours earlier. There are more people, and P.D.A. tends to play straight into your fear. Besides, you still have memories over yelling, spilled beer, and a bruised cheek from the last time you were affectionate with another woman in public. Now _that_ plays even more into your fear.

Cherche shakes her head, hand on hip. “Now that simply will not do,” she sighs, clearing the distance and embracing you in a hug. She rests her chin on your shoulder as though she forgets who’s taller, and it pulls you onto your tiptoes. Since you’re already in this situation, you hug her with all your might. May as well enjoy the ride if you’re going to hell, you assume.

“Nice to see you, Cherche,” you mumble into her neck.

“Likewise, _mon coeur_.”

You giggle at the pet name. “Sure I’m not interrupting anything?”

Cherche chuckles. “Would I be here if I were not absolutely sure of my convictions?” Releasing you, she says “I believe I have made my level of initiative clear.”

You laugh. _Oh, has she ever._  “Yeah, I just don’t want to be a bad idea. You know, like…”

She shakes her head. “You worry too much.” Holding her hand out towards you, she says “I absolutely do not regret or second-guess times like this.”

You’re sweating a little, but a strange chill erupts in its spine, and you dive in. You take her hand before you can doubt yourself any further. Ginger, doubtful, but grateful for her discernation. “Th-thank you,” you whisper.

Cherche chuckles to herself. By the way she holds her tongue, you get the sense that she could say a lot in place of nothing, but nothing is what she says. Her steps are quick away from the tower, and you worry about whether or not she’s trying to escape it, but you know if you ask her, she’ll give you some of the same sweet nothings as before. So you keep time with her, watching and waiting.

Finally, she says “I might have made my thoughts a little clear when we met with the troupe today, but…” She chuckles at herself, and you can tell she is blushing before you even see her. “Your wardrobe is simply divine.”

Though she’s not blushing as madly as you are now. “Oh, thank you!” you blurt. “Goodness!”

“Think nothing of my admiration,” she replies as if you are capable of such. “I’ve always been impressed with the idea of presentation and decorating.” With a sigh: “A weakness, I admit, to be oriented on such. Still…” You squeeze her hand before she becomes as shy as you are. “I do admire it,” she admits. You two cross a street during a red light, but there’s never any traffic during this time in the evening. The skyscrapers are nowhere near breaking, but you won’t deny how the pleasant the shade is.

Eventually, you thank her. “I think I was just trying to find what looked good on me, you know. And…” you snicker. “I do have a type, you could say.” You pull at your top. “I think half of my wardrobe is black and the other half is white. “

“With a touch of gold,” she responds.

“Yeah, that too,” you add, fiddling with the metal band tight around your arm. “I accessorize sometimes…” Gods, this is what happens when you maintain the conversation. “But only if I have, like, a good reason to.”

Cherche smirks. “You had a good one today?”

You flush. “I mean… you know. It just felt right today.”

The two of you stop at the next crosswalk, failing to jaywalk for some reason. She turns to you. “You pulled it off well,” she says, smiling with eyes closed in a way quite Cherchesque. “I would say… Grecian goddess of the modern day.”

You gasp with a blush. “Oh, wow, like… you don’t mean that.” After a half-second: ”Okay, maybe you do, but I don’t believe it.”

She smiles, but it’s more knowing. “I still think it,” she tells you.

You’re gonna melt a hole in the ground and sink into the core of the world. To take attention off of yourself, you say “And look at you! You’re like, gonna take on the world. It’s just so… powerful. So domi… “ You remember and laugh at the absurdity of the memory. Cherche tilts her head at you and you nearly freeze under her glare. _Congrats, Liv, you got yourself into quite the jam_.

You still haven’t crossed the street, so you lead her across. With a teasing spark in her eye, she says “I suppose I shall remember that you laugh at random intervals.”

You place your hand up. “Okay, like, I was just remembering something one of the other dancers said. The blonde one.”

Thankfully, she giggles. “Oh, yes, the lecherous one.”

“I’m not surprised that you remember him that way.”

“He certainly left a first impression. It quite mirrored every impression I got of him after.”

“Right? I swear to god, it’s like…” you sigh. “Like, after we first met, he kept calling you a dominatrix.”

" _Hah_!"

Cherche busts up laughing so suddenly that you jump and _eep!_ “My apologies,” she explains, stifling laughter. “I simply find the idea… very hilariously unfitting.”

“He kept trying to get me to agree with him!” you respond, both amused and offended at the memory. “Eventually I just said yes to get him to shut up.”

Cherche mmms, curious. “I wonder if you made him jealous any.”

You know the answer, and you could pretend that you don’t, but you don’t have it in you to deny where you are at the moment. “I mean, maybe surprised more than anything.”

Cherche moves her hand to lace with yours. “I know better, though,” she muses. “I should more than anyone know why you caught my eye.”

You bite your tongue, and you may shake once or twice. “I think it’ll take me a lifetime to figure that out, honestly.” It’s been twenty-five years and you still do not know how you have managed to catch the eyes of so many. Admittedly, when you dance, you get it. You dance to stun the world, to gain the beauty and power you fall short of otherwise, to be a goddess, but a performance is a performance. When it ends, you still manage to catch and keep so many eyes. Not only is it unearned, it’s a mystery.

You think of Virion’s extreme violation of personal space in the practice room, and stop smiling altogether. You don’t know what you did to provoke him. You wish you at least knew what you did wrong.

Cherche looks back at you. Surprised, you snap into a grin, but you’re not fooling anyone. You apologize once, quiet as can be, and eventually grow into a more natural smile. At the very least, you were appealing enough for her to want to spend time with you.

That’s something, at least.

\---

You two visit a local food cart, of which in downtown there are many. Cherche is self-admittedly not a permanent resident, yet seems to know the one you pick out at random. At the very least, as you read the menu like you’re decoding a hidden message, she’s talking to the woman at the head with formal cordiality. She’s rather good at talking to people as though she’s luring them into a sales pitch, but she never makes the pitch.

When she reaches into her pocket, you quietly stop her. “I got this,” you whisper, to avoid making a scene. She shakes her head, and you nod yours rather forcefully. She acquiesces, nodding with a smile, and you walk forward quietly. Getting out the money is easy, and not saying a word as you hand it to the food cart owner is even easier. She smiles and tells you it’ll be ready in a jiffy, and you murmur thanks and affirmations.

You stand next to Cherche. “I did it,” you say, weakly cheering. Cherche giggles with that Cherche smile. As you stand and wait for your food, she gingerly wraps her arm around you. You smile like a dope and let her. Her boldness comforts you, relieves your impulsivity to avoid public displays of affection. You didn’t imagine it to make you feel so safe.

Eventually, two wrapped burritos show up at its window. Cherche lets you go so she can grab them. Before you can miss her too much, she’s back with them, and you’re too hungry to think about it any further. Three blocks away from the cart finds your burrito missing a third of it, and hers barely nibbled on.

“Miss Olivi- oops!” You’ve just taken a bite and, mouth full, apologize. She giggles and waits for you to swallow, which you do quickly, looking at her. “I am admittedly unfamiliar with Chon’sin City. Perhaps there is somewhere you recommend?”

“Like what kind of somewhere?”

She thinks. “You are a lifelong resident, correct?” After you nod: “Perhaps there is a place special to you in the city, that you hold dear.”

You think so hard you stop walking. She waits and takes a few more rabbit-bites from the burrito. You try and think about your relationship with the city, but you struggle with thinking of a meaningful time in your life. Not with thinking of a _happy_ time; you’ve always been _satisfied,_ but it’s not like you can take her to the gym, or the bars you and your friends went to during college, or the mini-mart you got cheap fried foods from during high school. Your upbringing was very functional, much like your apartment, much like your college, much like your life. None of it seems quite interesting enough for her.

Eventually, your mind hits a park your parents would take you to every now and again until you moved out. It isn’t a particularly potent memory or an altogether special place, but it’s not too far away by streetcar. Besides, she made a roof feel special. This is a step up from that, at least.

“I think I have an idea.”

\---

The two of you stand on the streetcar platform with tickets in pockets. You’ve almost finished your burrito by the time she’s a quarter of the way through hers. She has trouble buying a ticket, and you have to teach her how to scan her card through the particular machine. You’re surprised that she doesn’t have any loose change on her, but keep it on your tongue. You’ve probably grifted a few free rides in your time, but best not to advise her to commit a misdemeanor.

The streetcar pulls up, standing room only. You gobble down what’s left of your burrito and toss the foil in the trash. You’re surrounded by people on all sides and apologize to Cherche, who shakes her head and smiles, already tired. You grab the one plastic strap hanging from a bar, and Cherche reaches for the bar itself with her free hand. You notice her slip and slide alone, trying to keep both her composure and her burrito. You look around at everyone- you can’t even see the windows or door through them all. All of these people terrify you- those could be hundreds of eyes you don’t deserve… but she’s going to drop the burrito soon and you can’t just let her fall, not let her know you care.

Gently, you wrap an arm around her waist. Some part of you still thinks that you’re being too forward, but she leans against you, letting you be her anchor. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“Anything to save that burrito,” you quip, and she giggles. You know she knows it’s a joke. Maybe a little bit of code too. Though, if there are a few more eyes on you, you can block them out. Let them see what they want, think what they want, say what they want.

You’ll be out of their sight before you know it.

Indeed, you arrive at your station (having to listen closely for the announcement) and tell Cherche, who mmms an affirmation. Though you honestly would be okay with staying. There’s something concrete about it, lasting. Like if you never left the streetcar for your entire life, you two would have to be permanent, and you would be okay with that.

Still, you push through the crowds, apologizing probably a double-digit amount of times as you arrive. She thanks a few people politely as you make it to the door and step out just in the nick of time. The station is on the other side of the street from the park. Once the streetcar passes you, you two cross the street, still comfortably hand in hand.

You can’t think of a single reason to dislike it.


	11. Reciting Lines of Remorse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would certainly make things easier were they not real.

The river is still, even as it is all you can see. Placid, inactive, calming in a strictly passive way. There’s a bench before it in the grass. A highway crosses the river at your left, the city sprawls to the right, both parallel to the river, letting this one patch of grass breathe. A patch large enough to hold a couple of benches, some sidewalk, an elm tree, and the two of you.

“So lovely.” She breathes the words so softly that they’re already a distant memory by the time you hear them. You giggle because when she appreciates it, you can too. It doesn’t make prior memories with your parents at this spot any stronger- your first memories here are always how arduous finding parking was- but the more that she looks at the water in awe that it foolishly does not reciprocate, the more the elm feels like a shelter sheathing you from prying eyes, the more she makes this unimpressive little spot hers, and the more it feels like it could be yours too just by being here.

Cherche takes another bite out of her burrito, but it’s performative. She’s too busy looking upon the water, surprisingly vulnerable in her reverence for such an unimpressive thing. Revering unimpressive things is probably why she let you take her on a second date at all, so you shouldn’t complain, but the way she looks upon it… it’s like she is unused to something so uninvolving and passive. Like the very idea of peace itself is euphoria.

“You seem… entranced,” you point out.

“Indeed,” she responds. “This is a world where I can imagine needing no more than I can bring- though I’d certainly count you as one of those things.” Before you can blush and tell her to stop it, she adds “What is the meaning of this place, to you?”

You’re caught off guard, eyes widening. “Uhm…” You take a second to think. “You know, every now and again my parents would take me here. It wasn’t… like, exceptional. But it was nice.”

“It is nice.”

You smile. “I knew it was close by. I thought you would like it. I guess… I just don’t have the ideal memory perception.”

“How so?”

“I mean, it’s hard to keep places in my memory. Like… it’s always about what happened there. I can’t think of a place if it doesn’t have a tangible memory. Does that make sense?”

She nods. “In some ways I’m similar, I’ll admit. It’s just…” She sighs, free hand on her temple.

“It’s just?” You know she’s on the precipice of saying _something_ that matters, and you would be damned if you let her words die before they grow.

“Forgive me,” she says.

“ _Cherche_ ,” you scold lightly, though it sounds like a plea. She looks at you in surprise, and honestly, you would too. Even though you try and maintain a firm grip on your face, you’re as alarmed as she is at you.

She turns away and faces the river. After a short span, she gives her words away, sighting as though letting a weight fall. “There are sounds in my head. Sounds that are always the voices of someone else. The most powerful memories are places like these, where I can hear the sound of my own voice.” Looking down at where the river is not, she strains to finish her thought. “A lot of my decisions are of silent impulse. They are feelings more than plans. This… this is clear.”

You smile because you are satisfied enough with the answer. You take her hand, and you let her face the river. Even if she does not take you, even if she has too much to carry, you won’t let yourself be remembered as someone who did not let her wander. The idea of her is a mystery, even during the moments when she is not.

She turns towards you. “I did have some dance training a ways back.”

You meet her gaze with a curious smile. “Did you? How much?”

“Not enough to make me a star, and I never had the natural talent for it like you do.” She smiles but turns away, brow furrowed. “It’s a relic, I’ll admit, from a time where... I tried to figure out who Cherche was, I suppose you could say.”

“I’ve been there,” you respond. You fail to tell her that you still are there.

She smiles so shyly that you almost forget that she is Cherche. Perhaps she is in a transitive state, in a dance of her own where whatever takes her from one conversation to another requires importance. She takes a breath, about to talk, then decides not to. Your eyes narrow in concern, embracing her, comforting her. _I’m here,_ they promise. _I’m here._ You are here. You are so far here that you forget about the troupe, the routines, your messy apartment, the applause, the roses, the man you do not let yourself name, whose hands you refuse to feel, because you are not there. You’re here. You’re nothing and no one but _here_.

“I don’t suppose you could take me into a dance?”

Suddenly, here’s not here. Here is not the same, and a few of the memories that make you Olivia start to slip through the cracks. You close your eyes and focus your mental energy on filling in the gaps they leak from before too many come through.

Then you open them, and you are here again.

Wherever here is.

She looks at you like she’s finding the words to plead that you no longer worry about her. So you tell her “I do remember a routine I used to do before I joined the troupe. Back when I was, like, learning a bunch of new dance methods.”

She leans to face you with her whole body. “Would you mind teaching me?”

You’ve never taught someone before. You’re not sure if you can. You’re not sure if you want to.

“Sure!” you guess.

\---

It becomes relatively clear that you are not a great teacher.

The two of you work with a relatively easy routine. Perhaps it is just easy for you, however. You know she said that she had some practice, but you overestimated how much she retained. She doesn’t step in the same rhythm that you know is right, often waiting for or catching up to her. Sometimes, you stop and try to tell her what to do, but it’s hardly coherent. It’s always “do this thing” or “do it this way” while physically moving, and while she says she understands you don’t believe her.

Eventually, the two of you stop. You keep your expression blank, so she doesn’t see your disappointment and think it’s aimed at her and not at you. The experience of teaching reawakens the fears nagging in your head that you are not a dancer, but a machine that performs for others, that you are not _Olivia the dancer-_

 _Virion’s investment._ Good for another, but _Olivia the nothing._

“Shall we rest?” Cherche recommends, eyes tired and disappointed themselves. Her gaze hurts, but only because you believe it justified. You nod, and reclaim your spot on the bench, looking up at the sky as she grabs the handrail and daintily sits next to you. She reaches your hand, but the energy is gone between you. All you can do is stare ahead and try not to question yourselves, you figure.

Then, she asks you the wrong question that she would never have known was wrong.

“If it is easier, would you mind showing me on your own?”

You turn to stone where you sit, stiff and looking up as though you’re killed. You’re petrified because this is an easy and harmless request. This is something you can give her, but you cannot all the same. You cannot dance for her. You cannot dance _for_ anyone without a little being given back to you. All you can think of is how used you would be, how used you almost were, how you were close to performing for one man’s fantasy as he would take away all of you, and you cannot assign her to stay in the same area of your mind as those cruel intentions.

She looks at you for the longest time before sighing shallowly, yet heavy at the same time. “We need not worry.” She places a hand on your shoulder, fingers finding the skin too easily. That wakes you up, gasping like your trance started draining the air from the sky.

“Sorry!” you shout, humiliated, hands muzzling nose and mouth. “I’m sorry! It’s not your fault! Like, I swear, that was a harmless request and I totally just…” you groan with a weak, disgusted yell. She stares at you in surprise, everything clearly more than she was expecting.

“You shouldn’t worry,” she insists, desperation creeping in. “I certainly didn’t expect to alarm you.” That just makes it worse, that she sprung a trap she did not expect to exist. None of this is her fault. You’re the broken one.

“No, it’s just… I had a bad day....” You _know_ that’s a weak excuse, and she doesn’t seem satisfied as she turns to look at you, forcefully removing your defenses brick by brick. So you tell her “Just… some creep really bugged me tonight.”

She tenses, hand finding her pocket. You hear the sound of a pen click over and over in rhythm. “I understand.”

“I’m not surprised,” you blurt. “He just acted like he owned m-”

Then you cover your mouth so hard you slap your teeth an inch further down your jaw. You realize who it is, then realize who she is, and how those two are intricately involved, whether anyone likes it or not. If you were to chip away at one, the other would fall.

You stand up, panic taking over. You want to be in a world where anything except this is happening, even if it means returning to nothing. You would take a world where you returned to dancing the same five routines over and over because all of this is so new that you’re in too deep and can’t stop fearing the moment you stop treading water and drown.

“I have to go!” you shout. Cherche stands with you, as though to say something, but you’re already walking away. “I’m sorry!”

“Miss Olivia!” She waves at you, motioning you back.

 _“I’m sorry!”_ Every step you take is a step away from her, and you can’t tell if you freed her from your mistakes, or if you freed yourself from the memories she triggers. You just want to go home, sleep it off, sleep forever, and never be anything again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the past and future of my manuscript (which is just over 40k words so far) the word "Sorry" appears 30 times. I think that five of them were from here.


	12. Selfish To My Very Core

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you have to deal with the fact that things are more real than you would like to pretend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is exceptionally long but I could not find a balanced way to split it so.

You’re in bed when you get a phone call. For some idiotic reason you haven’t put her number in your contacts, so you pick up immediately, unaware.

“Miss Olivia?”

“I’m sorry!”

After you yell that into your phone, no doubt deafening her, you lie motionless on your back, staring at the ceiling. You barely got into your nightclothes (which are themselves gym shorts and a stained band T-shirt) and you haven’t hidden beneath your five blankets yet. It’s just you, the bed, and a high powered fan blowing straight into your face, knocking your hair about.

And now, her.

Neither of you knows quite what to say. (Well, you feel like apologizing some more, but that will hardly help you.) There’s so much silence in the line that you should hang up, but neither one of you does. All that can be heard are your breaths, or at least what’s audible in the phone reception.

Finally, she breaks it. “Would this be a bad time?”

“No!” you insist, though you aren’t sure why. “It’s just… I don’t know what to say other than I’m really sorry. You know? For running out like that?”

Cherche tries to chuckle but doesn’t quite. It feels a little too customer-service. You hold your phone closer to your face. “I mean… I don’t know what to say!” you groan. “Like, it’s all just feelings, you know? I feel… bad. Just very generally bad.”

Cherche sighs sympathetically. “Far be it from my place to call you and demand that you apologize.”

“I mean, maybe you should?” you blurt. It’s quiet for a few agonizing seconds where you bore holes into the ceiling and wish you could fly away. “I mean, like, I shouldn’t have done that, okay? And I think I feel worse about it than you do if you’re actually just this annoyed.”

Another pause. “I ju-”

“And you should let yo- Sorry!” You clam up when you recognize that you interrupted her. It’s quiet for a good two seconds before she lets herself speak.

“It’s okay,” she tells you, at once comforting and exasperated, and you cannot tell if she is affectionate to your flaws or barely tolerant of them. “You are absolutely forgiven. I… do have a thing or two to say in response, but I wanted to give you time to decompress.”

“Okay,” you breathe. You’re kind of mad that she let you stew in self-hatred and sorrow over the fear that you may have permanently boned things with her, but at least she was trying to help you. Apparently, she hasn’t gotten that you’re your own worst enemy.

“I may have underestimated your reaction to that during the moment,” she continues. “Why you wanted to leave, and why you felt the need to leave me. I wanted to tell you that…” She falls silent and audibly swallows. “Forgive me,” she says. “I… am not the most skilled at these things.”

“Neither am I,” you admit.

“I just don’t want to leave this unsaid,” she continues. Her voice is as shaky as a voice can get without falling apart. Her voice has not and should not sound like that. “I couldn’t shake the feeling that part of why you reacted how you did was because of me.”

“It wasn’t!” you insist. “It absolutely wasn’t because of anything you did!” You’re almost crying, and you absolutely sound the part. “I really enjoyed our time together. This is... “ Your voice cracks. “I just didn’t want to get you involved, you know?”

“Because it was Virion?”

You start crying.

“ _Mon coeur…_ ”

Your mind whirls with responses. You want to tell her it wasn’t that bad, that you can deal with it, that it isn’t her problem, but then it all hits you at once- the way he watches you with hunger, the way he gets too close, the way he started to walk you against a wall, tried to goad you to dance for him like the lovers you never danced for- and you can say it’s not that bad all you want, but it will just get worse every day you spend dancing for him, and you blurt “I can’t!”

She doesn’t respond or hang up, just letting you breathe (or hyperventilate, one of the two) as you quickly compartmentalize the panic in your heart into something manageable and explainable, something that makes sense, something that can be validated.

“I'm so sorry,” she responds, disappointment more notable than anger.

“Thanks, it’s just…” you sigh. “I think that since this is going through, we would have to spend more time together. Virion and I. And… I’m scared of that.” You shake your head. “I think that’s what I _can’t_. Like, I feel like if I sign on with him, he’s going to keep on doing this.”

Cherche sighs so sharply, so pained, so deeply, that you almost ask her if she’s okay. After too long, and with too much bitterness, she says “I understand.” As if reflecting on herself, she says “I absolutely understand.”

Now you ask “Are you okay?”

Cherche chuckles. “I suppose. It wasn’t as though it happened to me.”

“You sound as though something else did, though.”

She sighs. “Frustration with Virion, I suppose. To put it lightly. He has a habit of scaring off people. A decent amount of plans have fallen through due to his… undesirable traits, like his philandering. He’s his own worst enemy, and it’s cost m- it’s cost us.”

Something hits you.

“This has happened before.”

She doesn’t answer.

“Hasn’t it?”

Still no answer. She may not even be breathing.

“It all makes sense now,” you continue, a bitter smile on your face. “I’m kind of amazed that I didn’t see the signs. I just didn’t think he actually would be like that. You know, I’m not _you_ . I didn’t have prior experience with _that_ little inconvenience.”

“Olivia…”

How dare she not tell you anything. How dare she, in the time you spent together, not say anything. There is a difference between getting him to stop being a flirt and not letting you know not to let him be alone in a room with you, present the idea that you are not his first “treasure” or his last, before you got spun off-kilter and thought it was a special case you were overreacting to.

You’re not alone, but you feel isolated inside and out. Whatever was left inside starts to float into the ether, from the chains that burdened it. You don’t care anymore. You just don’t. You aren’t even angry or vengeful. You just want to go to bed.

“Thanks for the warning.”

So you hang up.

You don’t pick up the phone when she calls again. Whatever happens after that, you pretend you can’t hear.  

\---

You can’t bring yourself to put much effort into your appearance. Generally, on Fridays, you lean a little more towards a fuck-it adjustment when it comes to preparing, but it’s especially prevalent here. It might have stemmed from the fact that you overslept your alarm by a good half-hour, but that doesn’t explain why you left fifteen minutes early, in the first tank top and shorts that you could find, in the same shoes as yesterday, hair sloppily pent up in a ponytail with no braids in your face but plenty of tangles in the rest of it. You almost forget your keys until you’re down the stairs.

You catch a ride on the bus. It’s Friday, so the morning rush hour means a more crowded bus. You still manage to push your way to the center backseat with very circumstantial courtesy and no shyness at all. Now you’re surrounded by people you have never met and will never meet again, so you plug your headphones into your phone and play the first song that comes up.

You notice the text message notification for one that you haven’t read yet. It’s from the name number that’s on the card that’s still in your bag. It’s short enough that you can see most of it whenever you unlock your phone, but you can’t bring yourself to open it.

The words _“Decide what the best thing for you may be, mo-”_ roll around in your mind even as you try to clear every thought from it.

About six songs later, you reach over two people and ring the bell a stop too early. Head down, you guiltily wait for the bus driver to move on again. The anxiety kicks in, and you feel everyone’s eyes on you, even those that aren’t looking, and cover your face with your messy frizzy hair. You wait for someone to ring the bell two stops afterward before you run to the back door, all but leaping off of the bus. It drives away, yanking a few strands of hair off of your scalp. You yelp in pain, pulling your mane in front of you.

You start to lower the volume of your headphones as you approach the theater, walking through the same patch of Old Town you walk through in the opposite direction to get to that whatever bar. You don’t notice what other people are saying. You don’t notice if they’re talking to you or not. If they’re leering at you, you don’t care. You suppose being numb to things has its advantages.

About a block away from the theater you hear the sound of people arguing. One is Stahl, one is Vaike, and one is a voice you recognize so little that you walk a little faster because you’re afraid the place is being robbed. When you approach, you see the two of them in front of the theater arguing with Lon’qu just off the sidewalk, who is louder than you have ever heard him. You widen your eyes but walk past all three of them quietly before you have to hear a single word. It’s like you were never there.

You walk in, file into the backstage room, and sit on the chair just in front of the mirror. Henry is on his back across all of the cushions, occupied with burying himself in all of the pillows. You reach for a hairbrush that isn’t there and sigh to yourself. You check the time on your phone. It’s about twenty minutes before you all are expected to be there.

_“Decide what the best thing for you may be, mo-”_

You put your phone away and wait with your elbows on the desk, staring at yourself in the mirror. You decide that you will need to spend a prolonged amount of time in the dressing room.

“Hey Liv!” you hear muffled from where Henry vaguely is.

“Henry,” you respond with a rehearsed smile.

Henry removes a pillow from his mouth. “You see that whole mess outside?”

You shrug, but your interest is piqued. “Vaguely.”

“Yeah! I didn’t expect it to happen, but you know me! I totally love it!” Two pillows are tossed into the air and land on the ground.

“I avoided the whole thing,” you admit. “Just not in the mood for… that.”

Henry giggles. “Yeah, I was just there at first to see if any fists were gonna go flying. That would have been _crazy!_ But no, Stahl told me it was a _very serious discussion_ or some shit.”

“Serious,” you repeat.

“Yeah, _apparently!_ ” Henry runs a curled hand through the air in a clear jack-off motion. “Phhbt!”

“Henry!” You can’t help but giggle, even as you're clearly embarrassed to.

“Not sorry!” he grins. “But, anyway, it must have been serious. It was the first time I think I’ve ever heard Lon’qu have an actual opinion.”

You raise an eyebrow. “He did?”

“Yeah!” Henry laughs. “Apparently, like, Stahl turned down the deal to perform at the other theater next week.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, it’s eh,” he says with a shrug, leaning down to grab the fallen pillows. “But whatever, guess there’s no need to.”

You glare darkly as you take your purse into your lap. “I mean, I thought we were going to make that decision together, is the thing.”

“Yeah, it’s eh,” he repeats, only _eh_ is the last thing you would describe it as. Your blood boils, your eyes close, and your fist curls into itself, the other on your purse with your phone in it. All you can think of is _“Decide what the best thing for you may be, mo-”_ and you think you may get it now.

So you start to walk out of the backroom, so angry that you know that you at any other time would be terrified by you right now, but _Olivia right now_ will make heads roll.

“Liv, where you going?” Henry asks in the most concerned voice that you've ever heard from him. You don’t answer him. You walk out of the theater with laser-focused eyes on the door, then on Vaike and Stahl, talking to each other.

Vaike is the first to look up and meet your eyes. “Oh, no.”

“Weren’t we supposed to talk about this?!” you bark at Stahl before he knows you’re there. He jumps, and then turns around, an embarrassed smile compensating for something. “I’m pretty sure we were all supposed to talk about this!”

“Liv!” he says, scratching the back of his head while looking like a dog who can’t pretend that there’s not a pile of shit on the rug.

“Naga, Olivia, we just got through with Lon’qu over this,” Vaike starts. “Do we really need you?”

“This doesn’t concern you,” you tell Vaike, hand to his face. Then you turn to Stahl. “You can explain just fine on your own.”

“Yeah,” Stahl says. “I got a notice that we needed to make our decision today from the guy that owned that other theater. And since Mr. Pompier said that we were on board, I figured it was an easy decision, you know?”

You look at the sky and yell “Oh my god!”

“Wow… I don’t see how it’s that big of a deal, honestly,” Stahl says. You look at him and he seems genuinely confused as to why two people are mad at him for his choice.

You fling your hand to the side. “I mean, yeah, it kind of is! Like, how do we know that’s what everyone wants? Because we never actually sat down and talked about it!”

“And why do you think that is?” Vaike buts in.

“Vaike, you would not believe how much I am _not_ talking to you right now,” you tell him, motioning for him to go away. “This is to Stahl.”

“Hold up, missy, you’re just gonna brush me off like that?” Vaike bucks up, to the point where Stahl motions down with fear in his eyes, but you swerve towards him, taking the bait.

“Not everything is about you!” you shriek.

“It’s about the _troupe,_ isn’t it?” Vaike responds.

“You know what _wasn’t_ about the troupe?” You stand on your tiptoes and get directly into his face. “When the two of you decided upon a decision about what we were _all_ gonna do going forward _without the entire troupe being present_.”

“We had the entire week to talk about it,” Vaike says, pointing at you. “You could have brought it up th-”

“Stop, stop, stop!” Stahl insists. You shrink away from Vaike, but he still stands on invisible springs, a cobra reared to strike. “Look, I thought this was a given after Mr. Pompier said he’d take us on. You know, like we’ve done for so long. Just go by the seat of our pants.”

“But this was a way bigger deal!” you respond, pleading, hands by your side grabbing at nothing. “This is a huge change, Stahl! We’re someone else’s troupe now! Officially! Because you decided this!”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Not all of us wanted to be part of that troupe!” you yell back, tears springing to your eyes, because how did this happen? How did this fate befall you? How did you turn your back for two seconds and then get shackled to a man who would see you as no prettier than in those chains? You can only think of one way to get out of that, and it’s so close that it almost seems plausible, even though without it, you are nothing.

“Then you don’t have to be!” Vaike shouts. “If you hate it so badly!”

You clench your fists, When you release them, all the tension from your body is released with them.

_“Decide what the best thing for you may be, mo-”_

“Fine. I'm out.”

Then you walk away.

You hear Vaike mutter something, but soon he’s too far away to hear it. Stahl shouts after you “Don’t go, Liv! You’re our star performer! We can’t dance without you.”

You can’t tell if he means it or if he’s just trying to butter you up, comfort you with words you can’t find the meaning for like he always does.

“Could have fooled me,” you say loudly, but not loudly enough.

You get to the bus stop. No one follows you. You’ve never felt any more like _Olivia the nothing_ , but feeling like nothing is surprisingly painless. You owe nothing to anyone, you don’t have to be anything to anyone, you don’t have to ever cross a mind ever again.

You get out your phone and read the message in full, while you are sure nothing matters. Where her words, detached and final, write the last chapter to the now and start to write the first day of the rest of your life.

Then you read it.

_“Decide what the best thing for you may be, mon coeur. I will do the same.”_

(Of course, she texts with perfect grammar.)

You smile a little bit, feeling less like a lonely mess writing the end of you and like a co-conspirator looking for the perfect exclamation point to end off the chapter with a bang. You're not even sure how you feel about the woman on the other side. Still angry, still hurt, still betrayed, still attracted to.

So you text her back.

_“i just did”_

 


	13. Holding On Too Long, Letting Go Too Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once you accept that, you do what you do best:  
> you give the world a show.

Of course, a nice dose of reality hits in the form on a phone call.

“Look, I’m not sure what the conflict is about,” he says. “It ain’t my business. So I’m not calling you to tell you to kiss and make up if it ain’t in the cards. Fact remains, though, that we made a deal for five nights and I advertised it on the site and marquee and all that outreach shit.”

“I understand, Mr. Ott- Basilio.” You look at the fan oscillating slowly through your bedroom.

“I’m glad to pay you for the four nights you performed; you did a kickass job.” Even Basilio’s business transaction conversations have personality, and his voice weaves natural emotion between words. “But if you can’t do the fifth one then neither can I.” He laughs. “So just pretend you like each other for the night, okay?”

You smirk, hand creeping from under the covers to cross over your chest. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good!” Basilio claps. That was probably the only reason he put you on speakerphone. “Course, we may not have a performance at all if I can’t get a hold of stubborn-ass Lon’qu.” You giggle. “Hasn’t returned one of my calls all day after he left too. I goddamn know he hears them.”

“I’m sorry. It’s such a mess.”

“I gathered,” he says before barking a laugh.

“Just… I didn’t expect this.” You rest your hand on your forehead, overwhelmed. “Even if I did it, you know?”

He senses the way your voice falters. “Hey now,” he begins. “Just cause a decision is ugly and feels like shit doesn’t mean it wasn’t necessary.” With nary a pause: “But that ain’t my business. So just remember- all of you perform for day five and I pay for day five. If not, I don’t. Deal?”

“Deal,” you respond with a smile.

“Excellent!” he bellows. “I’ll let you go. Don’t wanna keep you through this whole soul searching thing. You take care, lass.”

“Thanks,” you whisper, but he has already hung up. With a tremendous sigh, you push yourself up from the bed. You’re scarily tired because you embraced the idea of letting go and not having to dance for the day, but Basilio is right. You signed up to dance, and you can’t break a deal like that.

One thing’s for damn sure- you’re going to practice at the gym. You don’t want to even acknowledge the others, and you may legitimately kill someone if they walk in on you.

\---

It’s not until 4:30 in the afternoon that you make it to the theater. You don’t perform until six in the evening, but you’ll take the air conditioning of the theater over anything else right now. What a scorcher of a day. Your feet are baking through your shoes.

You collapse on the cushions, sweating all of your limbs off when you hear a rustling just next to you. You scream and lunge away, nearly falling onto the floor but staying on the edge. You hear raucous laughter and see a pale hand raise from the cushions.

“Henry!” you growl, throwing a pillow covering his left arm at his general direction. He laughs even harder as he catches it. “You _scared_ me!”

“Sorry!” he says with an aggravating grin. “I’ve been lying under a giant pillow fort since this morning. Sleeping, too. It’s comfy!”

“You’re the only person in the world who could sleep through this mess.” And his pillow fort needs some construction work. It's literally just a pile. 

Henry leans up. “Oh yeah, that,” he says, but his voice is so somber that you look over in surprise. Since it’s Henry, it’s not _that_ somber, but it’s enough that sounds like he cares about something. “Uhm, okay, I’m sorry this mess happened.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you sigh, looking up.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Henry admits slowly. “Still is a bummer, though. And I guess I can get it.” He chuckles. “As much as I can, anyways! Empathy’s not exactly my strong suit! Nyaha!”

You giggle too, just a little.

“Anyway, yeah, Vaike came in afterward bitching about what you said, in like a total caveman voice-”

“Of course he did.”

“Nyaha! But everything he said you said as, like, Vaike-you made sense. About how they should have talked with us and all. So I don’t get what his deal is. So, yeah, sorry that all happened.”

You smile, strangely validated. “Thank you, Henry.” That’s all you say because you can’t promise anything, but his words strangely hearten you. That seems to be all that he needs to hear, as he settles back into the cushions and miles of pillows. The two of you lay there together, probably because you’ve given up and he can’t see any reason not to.

Time goes by in such a way that you don’t even notice the others walking into the room. If they look at you, you don’t feel their eyes, and no one says anything to you. When you get bored and look, you see the edge of Stahl’s olive hair as it splays across his forehead. Leaning up and to the left, you see Lon’qu actually show up for once, not looking at you. You take in a sharp breath and collapse back down, but none of you speak. No one wants to acknowledge the end.

Then you hear a couple of people walk into the room. One set of footsteps is ignorantly blissful and free, and the other set is as tense and forced as you can imagine. You pay them as little mind as you can before the mouth of one of them speaks.

“My dears! It’s so good to see you here!” Virion calls out.

You don’t get up but you close your eyes and place your hands over your mouth. Gods, can he just go away already? Henry looks at you and whispers “Same, honestly.” You titter a little bit.

“Can I have your attention?” he requests.

“Shoot me,” you mouth, but sit up groggily. You turn face to him. He’s still smiling, looking less fake than you expected and confused more than anything. _Idiot._

Partway behind him is Cherche, suited up like a professional, mouth betraying no emotion that you can't read from the tightness of her limbs and the way she clasps her hands together. You aren’t sure what to think of her either. You don’t know if anything would have happened had you not fallen for her, had she not awakened you to where you were in life. Fair or not, she is synonymous with this chaos.

“I am aware,” he says, hand in the hair on his shoulder, “that there has been a… kerfuffle in the ranks here. I hope this is a temporary bump in the road.” You clutch your purse in front of your top and look at Cherche with stony eyes, because you need to nonverbally communicate that he’s full of shit.

Stahl scratches the back of his neck. “Don’t worry, Mr. Pompier. I think everything will get sorted out when we all cool down.”

You swivel towards him, fiery. Mirthlessly, you ask “Really? You think so?”

Stahl doesn’t answer, skin flushing, running a hand through his hair. He probably knows as well as others do that your shyness burns away the second you get angry. He should; he’s known you for a year or two.

“Yeah, don’t mind her,” Vaike repeats. “She’ll get over it.”

“ _I’ll get over it?_ ”

Henry laughs. “Dude, have you actually _talked_ to a woman?”

Before you can walk over to Vaike and show him why it was such a bad idea to speak, Virion says “That does bring the point at hand to question. Olivia, do you want to stay with the troupe?”

Six sets of eyes are on you, all wanting you to say something different. You squeal, then cover your mouth, terrified as you look in the direction that Virion is. The gulf is wide between saying what you want and saying what you need to say, and you're not sure if you can traverse it.

“I… c-c-came here… to perform. Like, and… just because I owe… owe Basilio that, and…”

Vaike groans. “Oh, brother. Olivia, actually _talk_ fo-”

Stahl talks over whatever he would vomit out next. “That’s nice,” he says, “but the question is about whether or not you’ll stay in the troupe.”

“I would request an answer from you, my darling one,” Virion adds. Cherche’s expression darkens, as though she may have a knife behind his back, and every time he sweet-talks you, she is an inch closer to driving the blade in.

“I… I…” How did you get singled out? Didn’t Lon’qu storm out too? The guy’s an actual mystery, so maybe they should ask him rather than looking for the woman in all of this. Everyone is on pins and needles waiting for your answer, and you can’t bring yourself to give it. You look ahead, trying to stop feeling the pressure of everyone looking at you, and you meet Cherche’s eyes. Eyes of someone sympathetic, knowing, and who wants to see what you do for the sake of yourself.

_“Decide what the best thing for you may be, mon coeur. I will do the same.”_

“N-no.”

No one responds. It’s dead quiet, save for Henry’s signaling snickers. A faint growl is heard, sounding distinctly Lon’quish. No one else makes a sound. You look at Cherche again, drawing strength from her. She smirks, impressed. The way she looks at you affirms to herself “ _so you are going that way, then?”_

Yes. Yes, you are.

You are the woman who brings misfortune to the men who need it.

Virion looks down at his shoes, wincing. “That’s such a shame, my dear,” he begins, looking disappointed in the most naive way. “If I may, you were the crown jewel of the troupe.” You lock eyes with him, enraged. Your only two options as you stare at him are fight or flight. He sees the spiteful way you look at him and recoils.

“Liv,” Stahl starts hesitantly, “are you okay?”

Cherche clicks her tongue. “I was afraid of this, honestly.” Stepping out from behind Virion, she looks at him. “Look at the poor girl. Truly, I hoped you had learned by now where the professional line for personal boundaries lay.”

Surprised, Virion looks at her, pained. “Cherche? What do you mean?”

She turns towards him. “I _mean,_ Mr. Pompier, for all of the business transactions you make, you are not the best at reading the people involved.”

Virion drops his mouth. “You believe so?”

“Quite,” she adds, lips tight and unsmiling. “From what I observed from Olivia, every time you tried your _tricks_ on her, she looked petrified. Far be it from me to diagnose that as the only reason she declined, but it can’t have been an appeal to stay.”

You gasp, eyes on her, then the others, then Virion. Sincerely, he looks at you, and you see genuine regret in his eyes, like he thought what he did was fine and no one taught him better. “Olivia, I do apologize for that. I hadn't any idea of how you would feel.”

You drop your gaze because you can’t forgive him but cannot talk about it more. Cherche is the one who scoffs disapprovingly, arms folded. “This can’t be new information, Virion. I’ve sensed a pattern.”

“You _sensed_ a pattern, Cherche? Is that you would like to call it?”

You look behind you at the other boys. Henry is lazily leaning his head on his arm as he lies down, semi-interested. Vaike is looking in the mirror, annoyance in his hair-brushing movements. Stahl’s beet red, not making eye contact with anyone but still being flustered with the floor. The only one looking straight at the two of them with any real investment is Lon’qu, who folds his arms and watches them coldly, defensively.

Cherche clears her throat. “I did, and I have. It’s been longstanding. I’ve told you many a time to ease up. For a while, I believed that you took my words to heart, but if anything gets in your way, it’s you yourself, sir. You've been less successful over the last few years because your little investments became those of a rich and, frankly entitled child amusing himself.”

Virion seems indignant at her words. “How, pray tell, have you noticed an undesirable change?”

“Mom! Dad!” Henry calls. “Keep fighting!” You shush him violently, but they ignore him.

“Consider it womanly instinct,” Cherche responds gravely.

Virion laughs, aggrieved. “Coming from you, that’s-”

“That is _what_ , Virion?”

Virion jumps back and stares at her in the same horror that a mouse would stare into a cat’s maw with. When you look at Cherche, you understand why. Human beings were not made to look as stern and loveless as she does right now. She is beyond stony, and the only reason there’s a smile on her face is because you feel that she is about to transform into _Cherchez la femme,_ and it will be Virion with the troubles.

You don’t react. You don’t make a sound. You’re too enthralled.

“If _that_ is the route you want to go on,” she hisses, looking up at him. “I will confess that it was not a woman’s intuition alone that put me in the know.” He doesn’t say anything, and she shakes her head. “You are generally quite skilled at controlling a conversation,” she mumbles. “Maybe what compelled me was less of a woman’s intuition, as much as a sister’s sympathy. Those I talked to, talked back. Expressed their discomfort. What was I to do, then, but encourage them to follow their hearts? To respect themselves?”

Virion gasps, but still doesn’t move. “Are you insinuating…?”

"That I sabotaged those deals?"

After a good ten seconds, Cherche nods with a toothy smile, the kind she had when she first kicked Virion in the shin and got him to behave in your presence. “I suppose I am, Mr. Pompier. I suppose I am.”

You see Cherche in a new light now. Though you know she was doing something to prevent something like this and has for many women who before, it’s not even necessarily in the greatest light. Now you feel… not even used, so much as a means to an end. Another reluctant conquest on Cherche’s crusade against her own management. While there is so much to be said, so much behind her actions, you can’t stop feeling that you were just a business transaction of her own.

“So why now?” Virion asks her.

She flinches, so negligible that only you notice. “I believe you know why, Mr. Pompier.” The growling behind you gets louder, but it’s at best the third-most interesting thing in the room.

“I do,” Virion responds. “Ultimately, that was the crux of my argument. I found her bewitching, Cherche.” Leaning on one foot to look at her, he adds “Were I to judge by your odd disappearances and strangely invested behavior… perhaps you did as well?”

Cherche bites her lip, staring laser beams of hatred into his skin. She looks like she wants to say something, and she never does. You feel a pair of feet hit the ground near you, and look up to see Lon’qu walking.

Before Cherche has an answer, Lon’qu rushes up and, with a frightening amount of strength, slugs Virion straight across his face.

“Quiet!” he demands.

You scream.

Virion falls over and touches his cheek, bleeding from the mouth, too weak to be flabbergasted. He looks confused again. Cherche reacts in shock, a tiny drop of blood on her lips as she kneels down by Virion and asks if he’s okay.  You hear Henry applaud and encourage Lon’qu to “do it again!” Vaike winces, and Stahl says “hey, hey, hey!” at Lon’qu, who promptly goes to leave the room. You hear footsteps run towards him, but you vaguely see Lon’qu… do something. Reflexively, you stumble in front of Stahl and scream again. Lon’qu’s arms hit you and pull back in horror, and you’re falling, falling onto the floor so quickly you almost don't register it. It’s all so loud and everyone is yelling and you can’t focus and the last thing you see before you hit the carpet and blackout is Cherche looking upon you with dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that would be the end of Part Two. Thank you for reading!


	14. Delicate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the show you give lets others shine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remind me next time to just abandon the very concept of <2000 word chapters cause I follow that as loosely as anything.

You sit on the edge of a hospital bed, fully clothed and feeling sorry for wasting everyone’s time. Lon’qu shoved you to the floor by accident because you couldn’t leave well enough alone, and you hit your head hard. You don’t need your hands to feel a bump on the side of your head. Then, next thing you knew, you were here, with nothing but a deep sense of guilt for dragging everyone along in your little diversion.

Things are a little fuzzy. It took a solid thirty minutes after you woke up for you to gain cognitive function. You couldn’t remember anyone or anything at first. Your mind could only remember there, could only vaguely figure out what was going on right then. Strangely, you did not panic. That was just where you were right then. _Olivia the nothing._

Slowly, though, as you lay in bed, mouthing automatic responses to the hospital staff, your mind was able to expand beyond its cocoon, branching out second by second from _the now now_ to the general now, and your first thought was of her and her looking at you, concerned for you in all of the mess.

Then you remembered dancing, the deal, Virion, the squad, everything. Strangely, you felt more exhausted remembering that than you did forgetting it all. You held onto the rooftop, the tea, the elm tree, the rose, the grip on the streetcar, as your memory expands to the rest of you.

Now you’re here. Back in _the now-_ general and present both.

Your purse, hair ties, and shoes are in a large Ziploc bag on a chair in front of the bed. A nurse already prepared you for checkout, and you guess you’re going, though you could use a ride. There’s nothing else that isn’t hospital equipment and a yellow curtain in there. You take the things out of the bag, slowly put your shoes on, and place the ties in your purse. Your stomach is swimming, and your first step is more trembly than a newborn deer’s, but you manage to make it to the hallway and grab a rail to balance yourself.

The checkout process is longer than you would like, reinforcing how overblown and maudlin this all feels. You don’t look up at the nurse in the station as they check the progress, you try not to flinch as they speak to you like an injured and adorable dog (in a distinctly androgynous voice), and you sign where you are told while they tell you of an appointment after the weekend to check on your progress.

Finally, you’re let loose, but with the statement “Your ride is waiting for you.”

You finally look at them. “My ride?” It makes sense considering they never mentioned finding you one before, but it still feels like an incomplete concept.

The nurse smiles gently, radiating their soft face and long blonde hair. “Yes. I believe it was your sister who asked me to inform you that she was waiting for you.”

You have to think for a second because you’re an only child. “My sister?”

The nurse thinks. “Apologies for being presumptuous, ma’am. She had the same hair color as you, and she was notably concerned about you. Regardless, whoever the woman is, she is waiting just outside.”

You mumble a “thank you” in reply, head hurting.

“Think nothing of it,” they respond, smiling with their eyes closed. _Hmmm, that’s familiar,_ you think to yourself as you start to walk away. About two steps in, you see Cherche’s smile in your mind, eyes closed, tiny grin chipper and measured.

Then it hits you.

 _Gods, they thought you were_ sisters?

You aren’t sure how to feel about that as you move out of the hospital, but it isn’t a positive feeling.

When the automatic doors part for you to the outside world, you realize that you haven’t been in your trance long enough for it to start being night (or stop being over eighty degrees). You rest on a large planter and look around for a car that you’ve not yet seen. You wave your hand above you and shout “Cherche?” No response at first, so you repeat “Cherche?” at the top of your lungs, so loud that your head hurts.

“Over here!” you hear in the distance. You follow the voice and see her in the lot adjacent, standing next to the car. She looks a decade older, so you can’t imagine how old you look. You wave back and start to walk over. You’re still unsteady, but get better at walking as you get closer to her.

“Which car?” you whisper. She points to a nice sports convertible that looks brand new despite being a few years old.

“Uhm, Naga,” you say with a blush. “This is… nice.” You get to the passenger door. “I should have brought a barf bag or something.”

Cherche smiles. “It’s a rental. You wouldn’t hurt my feelings.”

You laugh. “That’s something at least.” You lean into the car, sweat-glued to the upholstery of the seat. Cherche opens her door and gently takes a seat as well.

“I should hope you’re okay,” she says.

“Yeah, I just got knocked out,” you explain, trying to downplay it so no one is worried. “Kind of odd that I ended up here.”

She turns towards you sharply, glare burning through your skin with such withering sear that you feel small and scared again. “Olivia, you have no idea how frightening it was to witness,” she hisses, and you close your eyes, fearful. “You were  _out cold_. You were bleeding. You had no pulse. I am still incredulous that the place I drove to was not the morgue.”

As you open your eyes once more and look at her, she’s facing the wheel, gripping it and taking steady breaths, trying to expel the fear from her eyes. She can’t. She closes her eyes, saying  “I apologize for that outburst, Olivia.”

You shake your head. “No, I… should be more scared, sometimes, I guess. It’s just…” You’re not sure what it is, but it’s something.

She leans up. “Yeah,” she whispers shakily. She probably doesn’t know either. She turns the car on, and a GPS turns on in the middle. You take a sharp breath when it talks, but manage to keep it in. Courteously, Cherche turns down the volume a couple of dials and turns to you.

“Can you give me the address of where you would like to be dropped off?”

You think for a second. You aren’t sure what to tell her. You really would like to give her an address to a nearby monument, then try and walk home without vomiting. You still shake a little, and you kind of hate that you’re still so weak next to someone you already have complicated feelings for, but you can’t really help it.

She glances at you. She doesn’t say anything or gesture to the GPS to give you a mental countdown. She looks at you in a way that you cannot define, but everything she does is reassuring in a way that you cannot quantify as inauthentic. For better or worse, she has tried to keep you safe from her perch. You can trust that, right next to her, you are safe.

Not like walking into her lure of your own volition is a new development.

“3101 West Elm Ridge Way…”

You swallow and close your eyes with a smile.

“Apartment 38.”

She smiles and punches it into the GPS with ease. After that, you're off.

You can't remember where the hospital is, so you're glad that you have a ride home. You're just not sure why she bothered to. You're not sure why she still cares. Just looking at her as she winds down the parking garage she is atop, you can see how tired she is. How final things feel to her. How heavy the lights that look for the woman are.

You aren't sure of a lot of things about her, but one of the things that you're unsure of, you have to know. It'll drive you crazy until you do.

“Cherche? Can I ask you something?”

She sighs, more exhausted than you've ever seen you. She's tense and prepared for a talk, but the kind of talk that must be significant and repetitive, the type that she's assigned as _the talk._ You almost regret asking her anything and hope it just goes away, but she manages to respond with a choked “you may.”

You close your eyes, fighting back tears, before you squeak out, in a voice so tiny it's a wonder that she hears it “Was I just another girl to you?”

Cherche blinks under your gaze. Then, strangely, she sits up with a smile, relieved, as though she expected an interrogation that she did not get. “Oh,” she breathes, turning onto the main road. “That's easy. You absolutely were not, _mon coeur_.”

You're a little puzzled at how the question is so easy for her when it's so heavy for you to carry. “Seriously!” you huff. “I don't know what to think.”

Cherche smiles sadly. “I could try and convince you for the rest of our time together that you were not…” She looks over at you and you turn away once under her gaze. “...but that will never be enough, will it?”

You shake your head. Damn it, you thought that fishing for compliments was a trend of your past, but you need her to mean it. You need her to. You've been seen as an attractive woman before, probably because you had to dance for it, but you've never thought of yourself as more than just another girl.

Cherche smiles like she's already won.

“I saw you dance the first time. It was… enrapturing.” The car stops along the main road at some stoplight in a business area draped by the fluorescence of towering street lights. “Of course, I tried to keep my distance. I've been in the business long enough to know that most women, especially the beautiful ones, do not look at me in such a way. Still, it was a loss I was prepared to hit me hard, because…” She swallows. For the first time you've seen, she shakes just a little.

“Cherche?”

She clears her throat. “Life has taught me many a lesson that goes counter to what I desire,” she says. “What I desired was for you to see me as the standout. A word, I would clarify, is rarely ever used to summarize a personal assistant.” With a gleam in her eye: “Not even the dominatrices.”

You sputter laughter. “Gods damn it.”

Cherche smirks and lets you settle. “I'm not much for bothering with chances, but I found the way you took a moment out of your routine to make note of me… charming.”

“I was worried I scared you in the practice room!” Not a second later: “And also you were hot.” Cherche giggles while you add within your flustered laughter “I didn’t want to end up scaring someone that gorgeous away from me, you know?”

“That compliment may be the only thing you've said that I struggle to believe.” You tilt your head, failing to hide your pain for her, but she smiles patiently. “It will come in time,” she claims.

“Yeah,” you whisper, looking out the side as you make decent time out of the business area, while trees line the sidewalk to be blurred by passing cars. “So is that what was with the rose?”

“In a way,” she explains. “I didn't want to be forward, and… my phone number is… known. I didn't want to risk anything. How anyone looked at me.”

“Oh…” You reach another stoplight. “Does… are you out?”

She closes her eyes until she can sense the light turn green. “It's an unspoken truth. Honestly, it can be a thorn in my side. The side of my family, as well.” In a strangely vulnerable sigh, she chokes “I haven't spoken with them in years. If they saw me now…” She shakes her head, and you could swear she's tearing up, but you deny it.

"Oh... I'm sorry, Cherche."

She doesn't say anything. She probably hasn't ever since contact between them ended.

The two of you stare straight ahead. Neither of you says anything, letting the ambiance of the city, the barely-audible radio you didn't know was on, and the sky as it settles but does not set, lighting the spark on the sunset and waiting for the flame. You don't phase in again until you're just under a radio billboard, and across from Cherche, you see the end of the trolley line. Cherche joins you as you look up the building you spent your first date atop, and both of you stop at the roof.

“Oh. We're here.”

“We are.”

The car behind you honks. Surprised, Cherche hits the gas a little too fast. You shout an apology until you feel the lurch, and your lunch scales up and falls back down your stomach in record time. It takes you a minute to settle, and you're almost home.

Cherche speaks again, surprising you. “So, yes, Olivia. You started off as a goddess in my mind. Everything you've done since then… it may have painted you in true colors, but I can safely tell you that my attraction has not since waned; rather, been confirmed.”

You're a little stunned. She has to be joking. There's no way _Cherche,_ this remarkable enigma of a woman, this perfectly measured symbol of power, a living portrait in a hundred-story ivory tower, would say this about you, but you believe that she thinks that with alarming sincerity.

The fact remains that what she thinks of you is remarkable.

“You're remarkable,” you admit, uninhibited.

She blinks and smiles. It isn't a solid smile, and you wonder if she's thinking along the lines of what you are. You're not sure if things are the same between the two of you or not, but you are satisfied to confirm to yourself that things are, at least, on the same level as they were before.

“Turn right onto. West. Elm Ridge Way. And continue. Two hundred. Feet.”

You hear the GPS direct you in stilted robotic directions, and you see the apartment complex you call home just on the other side of the street. Soon, Cherche drives into your complex, and you point her towards your apartment- a straight shot from the opening driveway, all the way down to your left near a chain link fence with a piece of the deco artist’s neighborhood behind it. It's the fence she parks in front of.

She leans towards you with a hand outstretched. You reject it and throw your arms around her in a hug, leaning over her shoulder. It makes your head spin a little, but you hold onto her so tight that it dissipates. She's so surprised that she doesn't immediately react, but you don't let go, so she returns it, carefully wrapping her arms around you. Slowly, she seems to release herself and hold you tight, resting her head on your shoulder. It's intimate to the point that it scares you, so intimate that it feels like nothing will ever reach this level of intimacy, but you need it. You need her for just a moment.

When you let her go, she smiles and looks down. You watch her turn towards the front window, settled and pensive. Nothing feels permanent except the bed you sleep on. If the story had stayed there, it would have ended, but you're not sure where hers ends. You're not even sure where her night ends.

“So… what are you going to do now?”

Cherche looks out the window with laser focus. “I… imagine I would return the car and find a hotel of my own. Virion and I… we’re not on the best of terms at the moment.”

“Hmm.” More of Cherche’s soft language. You worry about her. Something seems wrong. You reach for her hand and squeeze it, but she still stares out the window, not allowing herself to look at you. There’s something she isn’t saying, and you will not force her to, but you still know you can’t send her off alone while her world falls apart around her.

Even if yours is falling apart too.

“Cherche,” you say, and she turns towards you. You can't help but laugh. “This is going to sound extremely weird and presumptive, but would you like to stay over for the night?”

She giggles. “Were it anyone else, I would take it far from innocently..” She places a hand on yours. Lured again, you nearly sit on the center of the car towards her. “Since it's you, however…” She simply nods. Either she doesn’t care or she trusts that you mean it innocently, and her guess is as good as yours.

“You won't regret it,” you promise, and take her into another tight hug. This time, she reciprocates right off the bat, and things start to feel real again. Even if they're far from normal, they're real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This exact sort of head injury happened to me just a year ago. Temporary amnesia will fuck with you so hard.


	15. In The Now Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That’s a show that gives you room to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this arc, you might find a double-update or two.

You wake up on your couch and your head aches. Well, to be fair, most of you aches, because the couch is awful and all of the springs contorted you in an unnatural way. You really should get this thing removed or possibly nuked.

You walk into your room to see Cherche lying awake, staring at the ceiling. She hasn't undressed, still in her suit-jacket and dress pants. You can even see the faint glow of her phone screen in her pocket. Somewhere along that train of thought, you realize that this has to be the slummiest place she has stayed in, perhaps in her entire life.

You don't bring that up. You already went through the you-go-first song and dance when your mutual if different desire to please others left you both conflicted on where to sleep. _“Your head,”_ you remember her insisting, but you promised her that you would keep it propped up on several pillows. You _did,_ but it still hurts dizzyingly, and the rest of you aches enough to worry yourself that you may not stand upright for long.

At least you're miserable together.

Rubbing your eyes, you look at her. She smiles but doesn't return your gaze. “That thing is gonna die,” you point out.

“I should hope.”

Your eyes widen but you piece together the inference between her words. “Shouldn't you just shut it off then?”

“Always have an alibi,” she responds. “If anyone calls now, they may think I silenced it. Leaving it makes them think… I am busy, and that it would die naturally...”

“...sure.” She doesn’t make much sense, but she sounds like either she was just sleeping or she was up all night, so you excuse it. It doesn’t matter.

“The things you want will come to you naturally if you guide them in the right direction.”

You sit at the foot of your bed. She leans to look at you, and with some shyness, you return it. Oddly, the closer you two get, the more skittish you are around her. Maybe because knowing her better makes her more of a tangible presence to be disappointed in you.

“Sometimes you have to take charge of things yourself,” you say, “you know? Just… make it clear who you are and what you want.”

She smiles and pats the cushion next to her. Without hesitation, you sit next to her. She takes her hand and places it on your lap, but says nothing. You don't ask her to. Something says she wouldn't comply.

You sit there for too long.

It isn't long enough.

\---

You brew the coffee for one person before you remember, stop, swear, and make a new batch for the two of you. Your bedroom door is closed when you look back there, so you know that she's done with being dormant and is probably getting dressed. You try and kick some of the dirty clothes out of the way and move your linens off of the couch. The TV isn't on, letting you play your morning playlist aloud from your phone, which you set on the counter.

As it brews, you run into the bathroom and throw a ponytail onto your hair, far more function than beauty. Then, for good measure, two further down the line. You face your reflection in the scratched bathroom mirror and, despite realizing you _also_ haven’t changed your clothes from yesterday, you're satisfied, and leave just as she leaves the bedroom.

You said she could wear whatever she wanted (after apologizing for the fact that you haven't done laundry in ages). She seems to have taken you up on the offer and somehow has found the spare formal clothing from the end of your closet. She's wearing a long-sleeved black pinstripe dress that goes to her knees. You let her pass by first because you remember that the torso doesn't have a back to it.

(She's a lot more muscular than you imagined.)

She walks up to the cup of coffee with a smile. “Oh my,” she says tenderly. “I… truly appreciate this.” She takes a sip of the coffee, and a little bit drips down the curve of her lips and dissipates.

You stare for a second too long before you get a hold of yourself, blinking fervently. “Oh, don't sweat it!” you say. You swerve around her to dip into the mini-fridge, accidentally knocking your massive ponytail into the top of her legs and growing so dizzy you stumble a little. To stay her concern, you find a bottle of coffee creamer and say “here, if you're into that type of thing.”

“I may use a little too much.”

“Oh, go for it!” You set it on the counter. “That's why I got it!”

She opens the cap. “You may regret that,” she warns with a gleam in her eye.

You already know that you won't.

\---

She stands by the door about an hour later. You don't have a long Calming List so you're on one of your last songs, sitting in a trance on the couch. She doesn't do anything, just stands there, concerning you with her inactivity.

“You can take the dress if you need to!” you offer, as though you would be peachy with the idea of her doing so (or leaving at all).

In response, she turns her ear to the door and says “I could have sworn I heard something... animalistic.”

“Oh, Gods!”

“No, it's…” She stops to listen more. A few seconds go by where you watch her, worried on many levels. You almost say something, but decide against it. You don't want to distract her from whatever in the seven hells she's doing.

You deduce that she's heard what she wants when her face lights up and she throws the door open. Before you can choke on your own breath trying not to scream, because it's already about to fall off of its hinges, she's gingerly walking down the metal steps.

“Cherche!”

You slip some flats on and walk out after her. She's at the bottom of the steps, kneeling and looking up at you, one hand outstretched and another at her lips.

You whisper instead. “Cherche!”

She looks back forward, motioning to something you can't see. She makes a few kissy noises in its direction, closing her eyes as she does. Slowly from the edge of the far fence of your apartment complex underneath a large carport, a cat walks to her. Only it isn't just a cat. It's a massive cat, so big you almost scream and call her away from the mountain lion clearly stalking your complex.

“Isn't she precious?” Cherche whispers up at you, grinning ear to ear, a blush at her cheeks. She's never looked happier in the week that you've known her in. She's never looked so free.

“She is,” you admit.

You slowly descend the staircase as the cat paws at her hand. Clumsily, she takes her other hand to pet them, and the cat lets her, moving their head into her hand as she affectionately strokes their fur.

“It's big!”

“She's a coon,” Cherche clarifies. “They're enormous, messy, and… sort of graceful.”

You nod. “That makes sense.” Cherche pets the cat, her smile tiny and pensive. In the corner of her eye, you see the edges of tears form for the first time.

“She's a stray?”

Reluctantly, you nod, head bowed. “Probably.”

“Oh.”

Cherche falls silent for a bit, limbs loosening like she will fall on the cat. You place a hand on her shoulder, and she shakes once, from what you cannot say. Then, tears still teasing at her eyes, she pets the expectant cat, murmuring sweet nothings- “my, you're so gorgeous, you're such a lovely creature, who wouldn't want a lovely cat like you?”- that feel more and more like _something_ as she repeats them.

You don't move your hand from her shoulder for the entire time that you're out there.

\---

The two of you eventually pull yourselves in. You crouch at the edge of your bed, knees to your cheeks, part of your hair clumsily balled into a towel while the fan blows any remaining water drops off of you. “You really don't have to!” you shout as she resumes picking up your linens.

“Quite all right!” she calls from the restroom, which is still fogged from an intensive shower.

“You sure? It's a lot of work! And, like… I didn't mean to make you do my maid work! I'm sorry!”

She peeks around the doorway at you. “It calms my mind. You needn’t worry.”

You smile, looking at the fan. “Okay. I mean, I’m glad it’s doing something for you. It normally just… makes me feel icky.” Mostly because you let it pile up so much that it intimidates the hell out of you.

Cherche purses her lips before turning back to the bathroom. “I may have indicated this before, but I quite like domestic work. Cleaning, organizing, setting… it’s a good way to quiet the world around me.” After a second: “Sometimes you need the world around you to silence itself, is that not true?”

You close your eyes. The world around you feels like it’s nipping at your heels, demanding answers, demanding your presence, demanding a performance. Hiding here and quieting all of those voices is the most exciting thing that has happened to you in ages.

“Yeah, that actually makes sense.”

The world is quiet here.

“Besides,” she continues “a hobby of mine is just making things look… presentable.”

You giggle. “You got your work cut out for you, then.”

“Oh, hush you.” That’s all she says before returning to whatever she was working on. You sit on the bed, listening to music from the phone next to you, but not feeling quite right. Perhaps because you sit on your bed alone, but you know there is room for two. You wonder how many more hints you will have to drop between the two of you before she takes that second space.

Still, you have a sneaking suspicion that she’s not in the mood to relax, so you lift yourself up.

Cherche seems surprised when you join her, picking up clothes as she takes the liberty of organizing everything by your bathroom sink. “It was driving me out of my skin not helping,” you explain.

She gives a wan smile. “Certainly don’t have to feel obligated to just because I do.”

“Maybe I just wanted to spend time with you,” you retort, trying to pout but feeling so ridiculous that you stifle laughter. Cherche looks at you and giggles before turning back and smiling into the sink, and you can see a furious blush across her cheeks.

It's adorable, and it makes you lick your lips and wonder, for just a second, why nothing has happened yet between the two of you.

“I’ll allow it,” she says.


	16. Singing To Our Favorite Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you write the performance for yourself and make room for others in it.

The sun starts to set, and you’re on the couch, listening to whatever jams come out of your phone. You need longer playlists; they’re all around twenty songs long and you’ve been way too fine with that. You don’t know what Cherche listens to, but you may need to hand her the phone soon so she can find an album that she likes. The fact that you’ve not turned the TV on emphasizes what a blocky, shitty makeshift-countertop that it is. In the back of your mind, you consider watching something on it, but you know that it’s probably airing game show reruns and evening news right about now, so the thought leaves as quickly as it starts.

You hear Cherche behind you by the mini-fridge, jostling the contents in it looking, you’d guess, for _anything._ “Good luck, Cherche,” you snark. “That’s a glorified sandwich ingredient holder. Sometimes a home for delivery leftovers I never eat.”

Cherche hmms. “I do love a challenge.”

“You’ve definitely found one,” you giggle. “When you accept defeat, I’ll heat up leftovers.”

She snorts. “I would look forward to the night off!”

You smirk. “Again, I wish you the best of luck.”

She chuckles, pitying your foolishness. You brush it off and pick up your phone because your current playlist (your gym mix, so you’re clearly scraping the bottom of the barrel) is going to run out soon. You try and find something else, but there’s no way you have enough music to last until anywhere near bedtime. Besides, the only list you have left you’ve helpfully labeled “Romantic Bubblegum Pop Shit” and you’re trying to be a little more subtle than playing a song literally titled _I Really Like You._

Even though you really, really, really, really, really, really like her.

You decide to distract yourself by putting that song on a new playlist. Then another on that list you listen to with only moderate shame. Then another, and another. Then a few songs from another playlist, and almost every from another one, and then after a few songs, you have about forty on a new list simply titled _Olivia’s List._

You stop, but you aren’t satisfied, probably because it’s _your list_ and all you have are a few songs from other lists, songs you _like,_ but songs that don’t really feel like you. So you try and think of yourself, and who you are, but there isn’t much to you. You’re just _you._ You flip through a few songs from your routine in your head, but despite adding two, you’re too sick of them to consider searching for them. You have to think hard to imagine an _Olivia_ before that.

Still, you think of a time where you were little college Olivia, who dressed too well given her academic talent, who practiced in scarily empty dance halls where she always stopped to look around the corner for any creeps barging in, who sustained herself off of cheap hook-ups and food too unhealthy for a dancer, lived in the gym and with three roommates you still talk to occasionally but you cannot imagine still care about you, who slumped through prerequisites to show what everyone already knew- you were made to dance.

It’s a messy time full of hard feelings, harder lessons, and the sloppy creation of a vaguely Olivian adult, but you remember it fondly enough to add your favorite song from that time. Unable to keep temptation at bay, you hit play.

When that song plays, you add another, then another, then another, that this song reminds you of. The search function gets a ton of work as you keep adding songs that you remember. From the songs that played as you sat against the wall of senior prom when you had no one to dance with, to the backstage of middle school talent shows as you repeated phrases therapists taught you to calm the storm of impending stage fright, to the songs you hummed along to in the back seat of the car with your parents. Your memory is a flood of songs and you can barely get them all in before remembering a new one, even ones close to now, but you manage, playing a new one you found every time one ends.

By the time you finish, _Olivia’s List_ is about seventy-five songs deep. Not long enough, but you have time. You aren’t sure what will happen going forward, but you know that you will be able to fill it up.

You phase back into reality to hear the microwave go. You smile sadly, shaking your head. “Yeah, what did I tell you?”

You look back to see her crossing her arms, glaring at the microwave. “As it turns out, I cannot fell every foe, sad to say.” Then, facing you with a wry smile: “I don’t mean to mother you, but you really should have a healthier diet.”

You shrug. That’s nice, but generally, it’s just _you._ Rice, coffee, and reasonably healthy delivery haven’t failed you thus far. Add _her_ to the equation, however... “Are you going to be fine, Cherche?”

“I’m not a big eater,” she explains. The microwave goes off, and she takes a paper plate out with the remnants of takeout on it. “Furthermore, I’m a very functional eater. If the inspiration strikes me later, I may pour myself a bowl of cereal.”

“If you say so,” you shrug, patting the couch next to you. You’re worried about her, but the last thing you think that she should want is for you to worry about her. She hands you the plate, and you smile, though it feels weird to eat alone. You’re just appreciative of her, the fact that she’s here, the fact that you’re not alone.

“Hey, Cherche,” you ask. “Can you think of any good songs?”

She thinks, bowing her head into her hand as she does. “I am sure I can come up with a few. Hopefully, they’ll be ones that you like.”

You can’t wait to add them.

\---

You close your eyes and try to sleep. Cherche, ever the doting one, insisted that you sleep on the bed that night, with your head in the shape that it’s in. Still, you’re the one doing the worrying. As someone who tried to sleep through the night on that monstrosity, you would take one for the team for the second night. Even though it’s probably not a good idea.

You’re already not the best sleeper unless you’ve spent the day doing enough for you to absolutely need it, and today was a lazy day. One of the calmest that you may have ever had. You try and focus on a calming memory. A nice one. Your mind goes to a movie the two of you watched that night when Cherche helpfully pointed out that there was a VCR to the side of the TV that… honestly, you forgot existed. You told her to pick out a movie as you probably forgot which ones you had.

That’s how you spent the last few hours of your day- watching a dully-colored old-age suspense movie that Cherche did not stop grinning madly through during the entire time. You had to admit, you were invested too. You didn’t even realize that you were holding her hand until she gripped yours so tightly you nearly lost circulation.

Apologies to her that it sticks with your memory more than the movie does.

You manage to pace your breathing into a meditative, relaxed state, but every time you let the memory fall away, the air isn’t serene, but dull, and you feel the fan blow industrial-strength wind into your face and hear the faint chitter-chatter of people outside your in the parking lot. You’d like to be away from that, and only get close when you look directly across from you and see the weathered rose she gave you, in a glass you got from Pride two years ago with water to its quarter point. It all feels so nice, and the bed doesn’t seem so lonely...

Good grief. You’ve fallen hard.

Remember the good old days of Wednesday where you didn’t think of her that often?

You lean towards the side nearest your door and give in to your own meditations when you feel her footsteps. They’re even softer than ever, but the sensation of another human being existing in this space still rattles your bones. You assume she’s just walking to the restroom until you can actually hear her breath in your room not too far away.

Defensively, you close your eyes and pretend to be asleep, though from what every story and experience has told you about the subject, you should do the literal opposite and possibly find a blunt object. She stops for a second, then tiptoes, gods-damned tiptoes like a three-year-old who’s misbehaving. Maybe it’s because of your general lack of care for whether or not people are invested in what you do, but you can’t help but find the idea so hilarious that you almost giggle and give yourself away.

She creeps to your side of the bed and gingerly sits down. You almost feel bad for her for trying to keep up this charade of sneaking into your bed and lying down. You feel her pressure against the bed on the edge, and none of your blankets have been taken from your pile. You open your eyes and frown. At first, you think you should do nothing because she would probably think herself an intruder and leave, and she should let someone take care of her once in a while.

So you turn over and place one of your blankets on her waist.

She doesn’t notice it for a second, but when she does, she about flings it off. She turns to see you facing her, blushing with eyes wide open. “My gods, I’m so sorry,” she responds, hoisting herself up. “I just thought that- I mean, uhm…” As she realizes she has no defense, her face drops as she admits “It is more comfortable here.”

“Then stay here,” you offer.

“I couldn’t-”

You face her sternly. “Missy, stay here or I’ll _make_ you stay here.” As soon as you make the demand, you giggle, because even you would like to see you try. Cherche still looks lost, though, like you are communicating to a reality close to the one she is in. “Seriously, Cherche,” you affirm. “It’s totally cool with me.”

She closes her eyes, but can’t help her smile. “You are too kind, _mon coeur.”_

No, what you are is a decent human being, and one who’s surprised at every instance of her honor at your barest of gestures. Still, you unfurl yourself from your blanket cocoon and lean the edge over to her. “And don’t sleep so close to the edge,” you add. “Uhm, if you don’t want to! I’m just worried you’re gonna fall off is all.”

She hmms sweetly, scooting back towards you.

Things feel better now.

It still takes you an hour to fall asleep, but the air is serene around you, and even as you learn that Cherche is a light snorer, it doesn’t bother you at the time. She sleeps respectfully, but her body curves towards yours as you continue to face the ceiling; at least, you hope it does, and that you’re not reading too deep into things. Still, by the time you fall asleep, your hand is holding hers, and it soothes you more than the memory.


	17. Sorry, I'm Just Scared Of The Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you don’t have a clue about the choreography.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this last chapter!
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/22j2u6gpnqvcdau2kvzfn6r6i/playlist/6b7UctZgxZcLQn5j3AE0KM

_“Basilio here! Hey, I was wondering if you could meet me at my theater sometime today. Lazy day, so I’m available whenever. I can pay you up for the fo”_

_“ur days you danced (hope your head’s in better shape!) and maybe we can talk about some other things if you’re up for it. I figured you needed some ti”_

_“me to get your head in better shape. Figured I’d text you too because I can’t help being a loud bastard! Let me know if and/or when I can expect you!”_

Then, it finishes off with _“-Basilio.”_

You giggle after reading it, smiling and holding the phone to your chest. It’s nice when someone messages you in such a friendly manner as Basilio, even if his texts are more letters than anything. His words give you comfort that you cannot altogether describe, but it’s comfort that wakes you up fully- which you need, since it’s already ten-thirty, and you’re still in bed.

Cherche is stretching across from you on the edge of the bed at an aggravatingly respectful distance. She turns to see why you’re radiating like sunshine. “A secret admirer?” she asks playfully.

Like hell she has anything to worry about. “It was Mr. Ot- Basilio. The theater owner.”

“Ah, yes. The ‘old’ one.”

You giggle. “He wants me to pick up my check. Guess direct deposit was before his time.”

She snorts, pulling her legs into the bed to sit next to you. You were thinking of getting up and walking to the coffee machine, but you decide to stay there. “Also, he wants to talk to me.”

She hmms. “About?”

You shrug. “Maybe about the cost for new carpeting after I bled through the old stuff. I don’t know.”

She gently punches your other shoulder, but her expression darkens. “I am sure that’s not the case. Were it, I imagine Mr. Ottone and I would have words.”

You giggle. “I have a feeling that won’t be super necessary, but I totally appreciate it!” You lie on your back and stretch your arms into the air, and your back from its stiff position.

“So you aren’t sure what you’re going to talk about there?” Cherche asks.

You shrug. “I don’t, but Basilio’s a nice guy. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home. Promise.”

Cherche nods. “If you trust him, I’ll trust him.” The expression on her face doesn’t really agree with her words, but you let it go. With the world in chaos, it would make sense for her to be a little wary for you.

You lean up. “Anyway, it’s already, like, half past ten. The buses don’t run regularly at all on Sunday, so I should probably just get this shit done and over with.”

She nods. “After coffee, I’m presuming.”

“Might be a good idea,” you say as you rise to your feet. “Or I’m gonna, like, pass out on my way there.”

“Will you be okay with your head in the shape it’s in, _mon coeur_?”

Oh, shoot, that’s a good question, but you say “Of course. You treat yourself and let me worry about me, okay?” before you realize the words are out of your throat.

“I can do one of those things,” she promises. “No guarantees on the second.”

You suppose that’s as good as you can get. You walk to your dresser and go directly to the lowest drawer (that isn’t broken). “I should probably get some decent clothes on,” you explain. Then you’re compelled to add “in the bathroom, I mean.”

“As you do.”

“Then it’s right to making coffee.” You pull on the drawer- this damned dresser is an old wooden hunk of garbage that graciously provides you with semi-working drawers.

“Careful of the rose there,” she comments, and you hear her knuckles crack. You nod because of course you will be, then blush because you didn’t know she knew. If you didn’t stare at it every night, you might have forgotten, but it helps you keep watering it even as it starts to wither away into a husk.

You smile warmly as you pull out a useful black tank top and mini-skirt. “I’ll be careful,” you promise to no one in particular save for yourself.

\---

“You're doing better!”

True to his words, Basilio is a loud bastard. Well, maybe not the _bastard_ part- in fact, his kindness and the way he acts like he's known you for your entire life always disarms you. The loud part, though? Certainly true.

You smile at the floor. “Thanks,” you mumble.

Basilio laughs, walking by his thick wooden desk and the leather spinning office chair he paces around but never sits in, content to spin it a time or two like a top he can't let go out. The office is relatively nice. A line of cherry wood shelves adorns the brick back walls end to end, some with loose papers and others with little trinkets on them. You sit in a decently upholstered red chair across the computer on his desk, and he never says anything about how you stay out of sight and don't look at him.

“I mean,” he comments, in a casual blue tank top and pair of baggy cargo shorts. “The head, yeah. You're not still in the hospital, which is probably where I expected you to be. Hell, probably where I'd still have you.”

You sigh. If it really was so bad, you think it's negligible that the hospital staff released you at all. “Yeah… sorry about the carpet and all.”

Basilio stops and looks at you, aghast. Before you can ask what you said wrong, he mumbles “Lady got blood knocked out of her and _she's_ gonna apologize to _me_ for it. Naga help me.”

You flush as you keep looking down. “K-kinda silly, yeah.”

He shrugs and gives the chair an almighty spin just before it stops moving. “But it's more than health,” he says, swaying the discussion in a different way. “You seem… happier. I heard about the unholy catastrophe that went on before the punch heard around the world. And after it, too.”

You shrug, but it isn't defensive as much as confused that you look in any way assured about the direction of your life. Even as you want him to stop talking about it, it's probably for the best that you talk about it at all. Get the ball of life rolling again, instead of letting your reprieve from what-ifs become a hiding place.

“After everything that went on, I had about enough. I gave Mr. Sparklepants a piece of my mind and said if he ever wants to set foot in this theater again, he better turn into someone else because I'm banning his ass.”

You look up. “Really?” you ask. You're surprised Cherche didn't tell you anything. Virion isn't exactly an easy talking point, but you'd think she would tell you that.

“Hell yeah!” Basilio’s eye closes, and he stops walking. “Thanks for calling me into your room Thursday,” he says, quiet enough to alarm you. “I saw what he was trying to do, and I was pissed as hell. Wasn't gonna let it happen.”

“Oh,” you breathe, looking down again. The desk chair stops spinning for a moment. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it, kid!” With a laugh, he slaps the chair into another spin. “Anyway, right after you got knocked out Whitey tells me that he and the fancy lady were checking in on you. Think the other two went outside to try and talk to Poofmeister.”

You sigh, hand pulling through your hair, angry and betrayed that you ever felt any trust towards Stahl. Maybe ashamed that you never seemed to give any to Henry. You transition to curling strands of your hair around your fingers. It's strangely comforting and makes you smile.

Basilio continues. “Awhile after I get on scene and tell him where he can shove it, the guy with a bad hair day tries to negotiate another week at the theater with me. I told him I already scheduled dance acts for that week.” He smirks at you. “Which I decidedly did not. Then after that they checked up on you. Formalities at that point, really."

Your smile grows into a grimace. The _Galactic Shadows_ are in a precarious position, not even holding onto anything. They're floating in the air, the pieces scattered into space. You don't know how to piece anything back together. You're not sure if you want to.

“So that all being said, I coulda just mailed you the check and that would have been the end of the interactions of Basilio and Olivia.” He finally stops the chair and sits in it. You continue to loop your hair around your fingers and manage to look up at him. “But I have a couple of questions for you. Kinda big ones, too.”

You gulp and groan, staring up at the ceiling so sharply you get woozy and have to close your eyes. “Let's get them done before I go and hide under my bed,” you say.

Basilio laughs. It’s big and roars like a fire, but somehow doesn’t scare you. “Okay, so… are you still gonna wanna be with Galactic Shadows in the near future?”

You think for a second. You have no gigs lined up, and you think whatever Virion wanted with you all is far beyond possible. You realize that you, too, are floating in space, so far away from everything. Even as life was boring before, it was functional. You set financial boundaries and met them, and now you don't even have a safety net to catch you. You need the troupe. You need something to stand on, at least for now.

You still can't stop yourself from admitting “No.”

Basilio nods, acknowledging the weight of your decision as you grip onto an armrest and try and keep from shaking. “Heard. That leads me to the second question I have.” Basilio lets a few seconds go by so you can compose yourself. You have to ask him to ask you. Satisfied, he does. “What are you going to do instead?”

You shake your head, ducking down. “I don't _know_.” You look up. “Probably not the answer you were looking for, was it?”

Basilio shrugs. “Hey, I’m a truth-teller. I’ll take the real answer, and I don't think it's the answer you'll stick with for long.” He leans forward. “I can just tell you this- get on your feet. Get your thoughts together. When you're ready, start to plan out a routine. If I think it'll sell tickets, I'll keep it on and pay you to perform it.”

You perk up immediately. Basilio laughs and claps so loudly you nearly jump to the ceiling. He laughs and apologizes as you return to Earth. “Th-thank you, Basilio!” you say.

He grins. “You’re the type of talented I know comes with a vision. All you gotta do is find that vision, you hear?”

“Absolutely heard,” you beam.

He leans on the chair as it slows to a halt. “Maybe I should sit on this damn thing,” he mutters. “Anyway, I'll make you the same deal I made Whitey- if I have any odd jobs for you two to make some coin off of, I'll give you a shout.”

You finally grin outright. “Thank you so much!” You stretch your hand out over Basilio’s desk. He immediately takes it, dwarfing your hand in his with one quick and mighty shake. Satisfied beyond words, you reach along your chair for your purse, and prepare to leave, when your mind goes to the situation you missed. How so much of the plot progressed without you, yet you are still without a key point.

“Hey… about Cherche.”

Basilio looks at you, confused. You clarify “Fancy Lady.” Basilio hmms, confirming it to himself before looking at you. “Do you know what she was doing when… it all went down?”

“I'm not sure why you care,” he admits, “but that ain't business of mine. She went out to follow Pomphole after a bit. Whitey said they bickered in the street. There was a little yelling.”

“There was.” Not a question, but a statement. Even though it's now been clarified to you, something seems missing.

“Yeah, then she came in and demanded to know what Virion did. She was stern too. Not in a way where she didn't believe he deserved it. She just wanted to know why.” He shrugs. “It was her business too, seeing as she has to work with the prick, so I told her. After I did, she said something about how it wasn't surprising in the least, and that was all she wrote.”

You nod, not showing much of any expression. “Thank you again, Basilio,” you tell him, but you're more muddled before. Though he doesn't interject himself into your thoughts, you realize that she didn't tell you about a lot of things. Things you should have known about. Things that make you worry about her. She has a tendency to act like you shouldn’t worry about her, but then she goes and does things that worry you.

You decide it best to call her up and tell her everything that Basilio promised, even though that’s starting to feel more and more one-sided.


	18. Coming Out Of My Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, even though you know what to do, you struggle to pull it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was revamped until the day of submission like at least five times. What you see was made today. Good thing I actually am submitting things slowly.

When you arrive home to Cherche, you’re almost placated as soon as you see her. The cat is back, resting in her lap as she pets her affectionately, leaning down to kiss it on the top of its head. You don’t know how a cat that large fits on anyone’s lap, but they’re both content, sitting on the bottom steps. You walk closer and see her face- and her impeccable makeup job.

You tend to throw on whatever makes you look decent when you want to apply makeup. She has black lipstick on, eyeliner just thick but not too thick, and just enough concealer and blush to accent her look but not take it over. It’s grossly mismatched with the camisole and gym shorts that she apparently chose for the day, but it’s still an impressive job; a study in moderation. You’re still grinning and blushing when you walk up to her.

Cherche strokes the cat again. “I’m calling her Minerva,” she informs you.

You sit on the stair next to her. It’s hot as hell but you tune it out. “Minerva, eh?” Despite adding yourself to the equation, Minerva is loyal to Cherche, staying in her lap.

“I researched names for a while back in the day,” she admits. “I admit… that I just like the sound of it, if I’m honest.”

“That’ll work!” you respond. “I mean, I doubt my parents were thinking of elves when they named me.” With a finger on your chin: “Or was it olives?”

She chuckles lowly. Though she pets the cat, she leans one shoulder against yours. She still looks at Minerva, eyeing her with more love than you knew was possible upon first sight. You almost want to adopt her, even though there’s no room for her in your home, just because she makes Cherche happy.

“I ordered delivery, by the way,” she says.

“You did?” Inside you’re cheering at not eating reheated rice.

She nods. “A place I know has a discount on Sundays. Antoinette’s Pizzeria. They’re quite good, a local eatery. I think you would like them.”

You chuckle. “I thought you weren’t a local!”

She snorts. “Perhaps you underestimate my experience with delivery food. It brings the most shameless food critic to face said shame.”

You giggle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

"Leave a girl to her devices, and apparently she will do makeup, order pizza, and name stray cats." Then, from the air of realization: "Congratulations on striking a deal with Mr. Ottone! I'm glad he appreciates your talent." 

You deeply blush. "Yeah, I'm just... Thank you."

"But of course."

The two of you relax, and you think it will be peaceful, that you can segue to talking to her about your issues with relative grace. Then Cherche changes. She’s pensive, and the way she strokes Minerva’s fur grows more involved as if it’s to soothe herself more than the cat. You were wrong about your first impression of Cherche- she’s frightfully easy to read, even if you can’t tell what it all says.

“Look,” you start, tapping your fingers on your knee. Cherche looks at your knee, not your eyes. “I wanna talk about something. Okay?”

She closes her eyes and stops petting the cat. Minerva still rests in her lap, even though Cherche looks at her like she may grow bored and leave. Still, with a sigh and glance at the sky, she says “I would hear it.”

“It’s not really that big a deal!” you assure her, but venom sneaks in because you would really like her to trust you. “I just wanted to ask you were keeping things from me is all.”

She stares straight up, hand knotted in Minerva’s fur. The cat cries out but stays in place as Cherche lets go. Then: “That is actually a far bigger request than you might think.”

“If it is, I’m sorry,” you ask. “Like, really. But, like… I feel like I keep getting, like, part of the story from you.” Cherche huffs again, tense. “It’s like you’re scared to hurt my feelings.” You look at her and add “which you’re really doing right now by acting like I’m saying something awful.”

For someone whose feet are lit torches, you sure seem to run across a lot of bridges

“That was not my intention,” she whispers. More of a hiss, really. “There is simply… a lot to unpack. A lot-”

“You don’t need to give me your life story!” you insist. “You wanna keep it to yourself, that’s fine!”

“You say that now,” she starts, but never finishes.

You hold your hand up. “Yeah, cause we’re here _now_ , Cherche. I just know things aren't complete. That you're trying to hold back. I'm a big girl.”

“Your maturity was never in question,” she responds quickly.

“I know it’s not, okay? This is more than that.”

“I understand that,” she insists, too exhausted for someone who _just interrupted you_. “It's just…” She sighs, tense again.

Now you’re getting tense too, the type that has you rolling your arms and sitting on edge. “It’s just that I tell you a lot of things, okay? And, like, you never seem to reciprocate it.”

“Forgive me,” she says, trying to stay level though she’s frustrated. “I simply do not want to share everything with you.”

“I already said- are you even _hearing_ m- whatever.” You fold your arms and grab your purse. Any angrier and you’ll scare the cat. “Look, just forget I said anything, okay?” Cherche turns her head behind her to look at you in the most surprise she will allow. “Sorry, I’m gonna go inside and cool off.”

“Olivi-”

“Cherche!” you shout before you intend to. Minerva looks at you and hisses, hopping up off of Cherche’s lap to walk around, sitting on the ground petulantly. “Oh, come on, Minerva!” you growl. Cherche looks hurt, by circumstance more than anything, but still manages a plastic smile that makes you feel worse. You turn to walk in, ready for the cheap, temporary high that conflict avoidance gives you.

You manage to stay inside for a good three minutes before the guilt eats at you and you feel like a fool for walking away, so you never reach that high and just feel like shit. So out you go.

Cherche looks back to see you as you tiptoe out of the door. Minerva is already back in her lap, and even sitting her head reaches above Cherche’s. Cherche doesn’t say anything as you sit next to her. In fact, neither of you do. Minerva’s meowing shows that she’s more chatty than you two. You suppose you should apologize for running out like that, and you certainly want to, but that would imply apologizing for asking her to stop being so secretive, and you can’t find it in yourself to do that yet.

So quiet is how you two remain until she talks.

“Would you go on a drive with me?”

You look around. “Sure… but why?”

She calmly strokes Minerva again. “I’d just find it the best way to gather my thoughts.”

“I don’t think you really need to,” you insist. Judging by the aggression with which she closes her eyes and breathes out, that was the wrong answer. “Sorry!” you respond. “I just… don’t want you to worry so much. It’s not that big of a deal.” You glower at nothing. “I kind of wish you wouldn’t treat it like a big deal.”

She nods. Then: “I understand that. This is more for me than anything.”

You breathe slowly. This has spun way out of control, but it’s too late to do anything but try to right the ship. So you stand up, and look at her with a smile meant to be warm but is utterly confused.

“I understand,” you lie.

\---

“Oh. That’s all it is?”

“That’s…” You’re surprised she expected more, and feel foolish that you don’t know more. “Yeah, that’s all I wanted.” A second of silence, then you blabber “Sorry! I mean, I’d have told you about it anyway! I’m just surprised that you didn’t tell me you knew. In the car. Coming back from the hospital.” You pause for a second and tack on “I would have liked that.”

You look on the road in front of you. Cherche’s slowly traversing the streets of your neighborhood like she’s inspecting each one, eyes fixated on the road. You waited a few minutes before she told you that she would hear you, but if you knew that asking her why she didn’t tell you that she knew about the confrontation that you and Virion had was going to be so easy, you wouldn’t have stammered it out like it was going to end in tragedy. Still, you don’t say anything, because her not responding still feels like a distinct possibility, and you don’t want to trigger that.

“My apologies for that,” she responds, sounding more lively than you expected. “It honestly slipped my mind at first, then when I remembered it… I wasn’t keen to bring up any inference of the past, if I’m honest.”

“Yeah, I totally get that,” you respond. Over the weekend, your home has been a refuge from the thoughts and demands of the outside world. “I still would have liked to hear about it. You know, things that are related to me… I need to know.” You want to apologize for being forceful, but by the grace of the gods (and your fingernails digging into your palm warning you not to) you don’t.

“I suppose it was selfish of me, to be fair. I’d used this as an escape from it all… and I can’t get your disappointment out of my mind, the way I didn’t warn you about Virion’s… clinginess. I could justify it in many ways, but… the bottom line is, I invested faith in the wrong person. All I can do is apologize for it.”

You see how she keeps her eyes on the road out of diligence more than interest. Her body language is slack with surrender, and she’s unsmiling. “Cherche…” you ask. “This whole Virion thing… are you okay?” You know she’s not okay. You can’t be totally okay while on such terms with one of the closest people in your life. It’s a matter of how much that she’s _not okay_ that she is willing to share.

As she drives down a decently busy street, you pretend you’re unfamiliar with the pueblo style houses enough to pass the time looking at them until she speaks. “Perhaps it’s his eagerness to change that he threw me off guard. How quickly it was that a family friend, possibly the only one who shared a mutual trust with me, could see me as less of an equal partner than a threat.”

“A threat… like, with women?”

“You could say that.” She turns down a side street, no doubt as an excuse to drive slower. “A lot of it was subtext. Rescheduling, repositioning, new tasks that I was told about the day of, even simple body language. I was always needed elsewhere or needed to be someone else.” She smacks her lips together. “He is alarmingly good at doing something you know is wrong and hurtful while never being blatant enough to accuse.”

You shudder. “Tell me about it, hon.”

As thoughts consume her, she pulls over to the side under an old brick building with a fire ladder extending from the side. “As time went on,” she says, businesslike, “I would like to say in the last three years, his investments and his spending became more frivolous, and as such a lot of his wealth was drained because he found projects that were for him…”

Then she stops for a second. When she resumes, her tone is of personal pain it hurts her to show. “I tried so many times to get him to treat people with the proper amount of respect… and it does haunt me so to think of all of the times I may have failed.” She holds a hand to her face, wiping it before you see any tears. “I’m sorry,” she says, about either now or then.

You place a hand on her shoulder. At first she is stiff, but you know the power of touch, and eventually, she settles when you circle your thumb between her shoulder blade and neck. “It’s okay,” you say. “There’s too much… of everything... to blame yourself for not fixing it all.”

Then, before she dwells on it for too long: “Want to walk for a while? Get your muscles moving?”

“You’re too kind,” she mumbles. That’s all she says, as she shuts the car off, unbuckles, and steps out of the car in a very uniform, polite manner. You’re less graceful as you let your seatbelt fall and jump out of the car, but soon the two of you walk together with it never mattering.

You make it halfway down the street before she says “I would like to ask you a favor.”

“Mm?” The street ahead of you curves around a fenceless, undeveloped clearing that stretches a few blocks wide before hitting the main thoroughfare that runs parallel to your apartment's hallway.

“It’s a big deal…” she admits. “If you refuse, it’s... “ She closes her eyes. “After what happened, after your accident, it’s selfish of me to ask. Perhaps you shouldn’t worry.”

You chuckle-snort as you two enter the clearing, where the grass is summer-stained, colorless, and dying. “You can’t just tease me like that.” No sooner than you say it, you start to backtrack. “Sorry! You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want! But…” You take her hand and walk close to her if only so you can take some of her courage. “If it’s about me… I should know, right?”

Awakened, she nods. “That _is_ true.” Still, she looks downcast, apparently interested in her feet as she walks. “I appreciate that, truly.” Meanwhile, you fear that what you awoke was a beast that tears up her insides and want to apologize more than ever. “I would like you to accompany me as I collect my things from where I was staying.”

The prospect of seeing Virion again terrifies you, but you mumble “Okay, sure.”

“I just fear…” she says. “That he will… try to take advantage of what he thinks is his.”

You point at yourself without words, bitter inside.

She nods sadly. “He said… many things to me. He said many things that he thought were… hard truths.” She stops, and so do you. It takes a second for her to nod. “Your being his was a right he felt it silly of me to contest.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry that I got us into this mess.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you shake a little. You'd never appreciated how much of a bullet that you dodged until just now. “Sorry about that,” you mumble. “I just froze for a second.”

Cherche moves her hand to your arm through your tremors. “I should be the one to apologize. I… admit that I’m a little possessive by nature. It would make sense that he noticed.”

You shake your head. “You worry too much.” She turns her head towards you, exhausted and ragged. “You have a damn good way of getting what you want, right?”

It's her turn to look at you with radiant eyes as you echo her words that torqued you. She giggles, honest-to-god giggles; excited, impressed, and hungry. “Perhaps I do,” she says. Then her happiness disappears. “I should suppose, with that in mind… if you want to stay behind, I wouldn’t begrudge you. For, you know… not walking into a fire that you didn’t start.”

“Hey…”

She looks you, and you can’t hide the fear on your face at the idea of seeing Virion again, especially knowing what you do. You can’t stop your breath from hastening. Still, you read enough into her pauses, tension, and her apologizing with more compulsion than you for you to know that you cannot let her go alone.

“Absolutely,” you tell her.

“Are you sure?”

You throw your spare hand up. “Look, you may have gathered this, ‘cause it was like the lesson of the day, but I’m as stubborn a bitch as you find.”

“Perfect. Every bit my equal in that regard.”

You smile, and you bend to sit down, criss-crossing your legs and letting your loose top float down with you. “I just hope I’m helpful

Cherche smiles, sitting on her knees and slapping your shoulder. “You seem to worry quite a bit about what people think of you.”

You point incredulously. “You’re one to talk!”

She hmms, tilting her head cockily. “Who better to ask than an expert on the matter?”

Your glower betrays how impressed you are at her tendency for snazzy replies that make you stop the world and swoon inside. She snickers, chuffed with herself.

You look right to see a mountain lion walk your way for a second, but before you can dive to protect Cherche, she squeals “Minerva!” and accepts the familiar coon cat into her arms. “Pardon me,” she tells you, holding onto the cat and kissing its fur until Minerva is safe in her arms. You almost tell her _it’s your cat, don’t let me intrude,_ until you remember that she’s a stray. You realize how familiar with the clearing Minerva must be to have traversed it to find you two. You’re not sure where her home is, but you’d hate if this were it.

Cherche smiles atop Minerva’s head, her makeup job still not befitting the dirt and mediocrity of her current station and current human partner, but she’s all the more glamorous for it. It communicates what you don’t need for her to say- a person once used to standing behind others is now her own woman, coming out from behind her shadow for the world to see. Not a pair of eyes will miss her.

Yours certainly didn’t.


	19. Going In For The Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, everything falls into place, and it all feels just right, like a path into the limelight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the M rating comes into play.

You excuse yourself to bed early that night, telling Cherche that she can come to bed whenever. The last you saw of her, she was sitting on her knees in front of the couch (you knew she would give up using the damn thing eventually), eating another slice of pizza (she did order a lot, and is eating more than you expected to). She gives you a look that you can’t quite read, and you think of it as you try to sleep.

 _Trying_ to sleep is really the best you can hope for.

You toss and turn a few times, trying to get comfortable, but not quite reaching it. You think of tomorrow with fear and apprehension, even when you try to minimize it in your head. _You said you’d help,_ you tell yourself. _In record time, at that._ You’d never committed to a damn thing in your life as quickly as you committed to this, but it’s everything you fear. Every mild outcome in your head- _He may not even be there when you get her things, he may not even start a fuss at all-_ pales in comparison to him giving you trouble or getting rid of her things altogether. Besides, it’s _Virion_. After everything… you can’t think of him without a feeling of dread, confusion, and disgust.

You lie on your back in surrender, head turned upward, one hand sprawled on the bed, the other hanging off of it towards the ground. You see the rose, though it’s barely a rose at this point. You still smile fondly, because it’s a reminder of Cherche, and you’re apparently very easy to please if a wilted rose helps enforce positive feelings about someone. Still, it’s Cherche in the now now, and it's really all the permanence that you have of her.

You have no clue where she will go, what she will do, what her life will entail when she leaves Virion- or if she will leave you as well. She knew how to use you to stop Virion from feeling comfortable in his ways, and though she seems genuine about her feelings for you, you’re a gullible, naive little girl too long a self-preservative loner who wants exactly what she purports to give you. She could be using that to her advantage.

It would just be too perfect to be real.

Not too long has passed before Cherche quietly enters your room, makeup cleaned off and leaving her weary mauve eyes and her naturally matte skin. You sit up and pat the other side of the bed, and she takes the invitation, lying closer towards the middle and taking part of the blankets. Cherche is a considerate sleeper and measures her space taken with precision- which is good because you are really not one, and should be.

She looks up at you from her pillow, and you smile uneasily. “Trouble sleeping, I should guess?”

You nod. “Just a little… nervous.”

She slinks down. “About getting my belongings?”

You’re hesitant to admit it, but say “Yeah… a little” so your words and actions aren’t too disparate to be taken as honesty.

She sighs. “It’s logical to worry.” After a second: “You can always stay at home if needed. I’ll be fine.”

“Will you be?” you argue. “I mean, everything seems so up in the air. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Nor I you,” she responds pointedly. “That would wound me immensely if all I could offer you was remorse.”

“I-I’ll risk it.”

“Olivia.”

Her tone is so low it growls, and she tenses enough to make the air between you feel made of rocks. You aren’t sure what you said, what you missed, but you already feel like a fool.

“Cherche?”

She closes her eyes. “I just… in my mind, I keep replaying the incident where you fell.”

“Oh,” you breathe. “I…” You run a hand through your hair. “I’m okay, at least.”

She sighs. “That’s why I should count my blessings, but… the feeling of fear, I can remember so well. I…” She swallows so deeply you feel it enter your skin through the bedding. “I thought I had _lost you_."

You take a sharp breath. “Oh…”

She returns to neutral, her mouth a straight line that betrays nothing. It’s her eyes that say everything. They are disappointed, mostly internally, but a smidge at you, that you may never get it. “I know you are here with me now,” she says, “and for that I am lucky. It… pains me, though, to risk the idea of you being hurt once again. It feels negligent, in a way.

You reach her hand towards her, and she takes it with both of hers. “I mean… the situation is already a thing we won’t like but have to do. We gotta get used to it.” Cherche frowns as if smelling something rank and invasive, but she says nothing to deny it. So you decide to make the most of the dead air. “Like you said, I’m here now. I’ll be yours for as long as you need me.”

You say little aloud, but the plea you mean is deafening. You just asked her to keep her in your life, to not thank you for your troubles and leave you with a wilted rose and fifteen songs on your list. All you can think is _please need me for a long time, please need me for good._

Her mouth is open just enough to show that she’s curious, as though _you’re_ the human mystery and she has no clue as to what motivates your thoughts when it all makes sense to you. She beckons you towards her with her free hand, and without a moment’s hesitation, you follow her. If you’re going to be a fool, you’re going to commit.

Protectively, she takes one of her hands off of yours, places an arm around your neck, and pulls you closer. “Loyalty… it’s been in the Aile-Rouge genes for so long, that I could do no less than promise it to you.”

Suddenly you get it. Your anxiety over her commitment level turns around and the evidence for it backs that up more than your fear. You’ve never really figured out why she is so patient with you, why she puts up with your antics, your temper, your short grasp and youthful abandon, but you understand it now. Before you thought it was from the distance of someone impermanent, who could divorce herself from your flaws, but it makes sense now. Even as you were ready to let go of everything, as soon as she grew attached to you, she could not let go of you.

Leaning her face to meet yours, she says “I have said before that I am quite good at getting what I want, no?” Without inhibition, you nod.

Then: “I want you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s real now.

“Even with everything?” you ask, voice nearly nonexistent. “I'm not the dancer you met. I'm…” A right gods-damned mess, a graceless pile of insecurities, a contract with a hell of a lot of fine print that she's about to sign-

“I _want_ you,” she insists.

That’ll do it. Your hand presses into her skin helplessly. “Naga, you’re hot,” you blurt. She giggle-snorts, lips barely an inch away from yours. You lick yours with embarrassing transparency.

“Do you mind?”

“If you don’t.” Her words tickle your skin.

You’re all hers.

You kiss softly, slowly, and then immediately decide that it’s not enough, leaning to sit up as you split. One look into her eyes tells you that she feels somewhat akin to how you feel.

You giggle, giddy. _Here we go._

You let her kiss you with unnervingly fierce devotion, hand on the back of your neck bending your face to her will. Not that you needed any convincing, leaning into her and tasting the fluorescence and leather in her lips as they move into yours like a woman free of chains. She’s not the most astute kisser, but she _means_ it, she means it for _you_ . You cup her face to savor the moment where she is _yours._

She pulls apart from you for a second, pulling at your top. “My, how torturous it was to stay chaste at your home for a full forty-eight hours when what I wanted to do to you was-”

You throw your top over your head, where it crashes into your headboard. “This?”

“My, my,” she purrs, and lunges into another kiss, pressing into you with a force that would frighten you were it anyone else. Instead, it thrills you so much that you get dizzy again, but this time, you like how it feels, and let its poison consume you. She leans into you, and you let her, and she’s finally fully alive for once. Not the professional statuesque Cherche, but the dragon within her. She’s so alive that she’s dangerous, but you trust her, so you let her lean into you, cover you, push you against the mattress and consume you, fingers tickling your bare hip. You moan into her lips, shimmying your shorts down your legs while wrapping one leg around her, which makes no sense and belies that, _oh gods,_ it’s been a while-

Then reality starts to disappear.

The ceiling above you starts to fade into something unfamiliar, and you feel your skin strip away. Everything is immaterial, transparent, and you feel yourself slamming your hand against a surface fervently before you’re even afraid. Nothing quite feels right, and everything feels like it could be a dream you cannot comprehend. Because everything is too good. It’s far too good to be _your_ reality. All you can think of to stop the new reality is to gasp/shout “Help!”

The next thing you feel is your head being lifted up, then the muted echo of footsteps, then after too long something at your forehead that cools your whole body, then a slow, calm stream of “Olivia, Olivia, Olivia.”

Then you’re Olivia again. You are real, the world is real, and the reason everything is going better is because it is.

“I'm sorry!”

It's so weird to hear _anyone_ else reflexively apologize, but you recognize the voice as hers. Suddenly, you see her in the light of the distant streetlamp leaning outside of the window, taking your arm in desperation, still dressed in the last clothes you recall her wearing (though certainly… muddled some.) “ _Mon cheri_ , I’m so sorry for my negligence.”

“What happened?” you ask, reaching up at her face because you can’t believe she’s here and you don’t care what she thinks. You grab her cheek, which goes red under your touch. “I was having the best dream.”

“You screamed for someone to help you.”

So that was real. “So ended off on a bumpy note. Before that, it was nice.” You decide to toy with her a bit, because if she doesn’t think you feel like it’s a big deal, she may not either. (Besides, you don’t know what you feel.) You giggle, playing embarrassed. “Oh, that’s the difference. You weren’t _in_ the tank top in my dream.”

Cherche sputters something, somewhere between scandalized, endeared, and annoyed. “You're always so saucy for someone with a habit of scaring the devil out of me.”

You nod. “Don't stress, babe,” you drawl. “It was… fun while it lasted.” Then you sit up, heart skipping a beat. “I mean, not that it has to end! It can- okay, how out was I, beca-”

Before you get so worked up that you trip over yourself, Cherche leads your head back to your pillow. “You’ll forgive me if this little trouble has me concerned for your well-being paramount.” She gestures towards the ice pack on your head, and you admire her clear thinking through it all. Were you in her position, you probably would have paced in a panic, called 911, and screamed into the phone.

You giggle. “Oh, well. I…” You take your hands off her face and cross them over your chest. “I’m just glad you’re here, though.”

“Of course I would be,” she says.

“I know, but… this feels too perfect. And that's weird. That the woman I liked would like me back.”

She bends to both of her knees. “You have a beguiling way with words,” she whispers, disarmed into trembling hands. She caresses your face so tenderly that it chills you, reaching the bump on your head. “If it would be better to hold off, I fully understand.”

You lean up and look at her like you're going into a lecture. Still, as things get crazier in your life, you want to set things in stone even more. So you pat the bed next to you. “Cherche,” you tell her. “I know that I'm not, like, the best, at giving signals, but I know I had to have gotten across the fact that I want you, like crazy. Like... _poetically_.”

“You honestly…” Cherche doesn't finish her statement like she can't believe it.

You giggle. “I'm like the most obvious tell in the world.” You communicate your consent through your eyes, consent for many things. “Let’s just be careful this time, all right?”

Cherche closes her eyes, pondering her choice like her life depends on her next move- a lot more effort than you've seen from her making actual life-changing decisions. Then she loops around your bed frame to crawl next to you with a catlike gait.

“Who am I to deny?” she whispers with a tender smile. She leans over slowly to kiss you, and you put a hand on her cheek again. “I promise you that I will be… slower… this time.”

“Probably a good idea,” you respond with a welcoming smile. Perhaps for the first time since you two have met in the whirlwind of change, you should take things slowly.

Besides, you should treat this as the calm before the storm that it is.

She giggles, and so do you, because you can’t imagine your first time together being anything else but an awkward, giggly, accident-prone, lovely mess.

You lick your lips again and go in for the kill.

Take two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we are on to the final part. 
> 
> I'm a little terrified tbh hahahahahaha


	20. Weak But Not Giving In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dry your eyes. Get up. Rehearse your steps. Be ready.

You knew it was nothing to worry about. 

The checkup went how you expected it to. They officially clarify that it’s a concussion, which even you could have told them. They give you a set of precautions, another follow-up appointment, and a prescription for pain meds that you wait for in a line in the lobby in front of the hospital. You wear a set of knee-high boots and a skirt that fills the rest of the way up, as well as a black coat over a bright blue tank top that Cherche brought to your attention. (“See, you do have color!” she affirmed with a Cherche smile.) You’re baking in the heat but you feel like a killer- or as close as a shy dancer with cotton candy hair will get.

You make it up to the counter after ten minutes or so and get the pain meds from a smiley pharmacist who speaks too much. You make eye contact with her a couple of times and try and stuff your anxiety into an internal cage you cannot fit it in, but you really wish she wouldn’t waste her time. You take the bottle of pills, force a smile at her, and step out before she can ask what you want to do with the papers further explaining them.

As you walk through a set of automatic doors towards a second set marking the exit of the doctor’s office, you hear someone shout your name. Holding your purse close to you, you turn your head around so sharply you get vertigo and sit on the nearest surface (a newsletter stand) before you create a second concussion. You wait for whomever to catch up with you while you scour your memory banks to put the voice to a face.

When you do, you smile, as odd as it is.

Henry all but skips over, hand out. You take it, and he pulls you from the newspaper stand. “Yo, I knew you were weird, but cushions are  _ way  _ more comfortable.” With that, he plops down on the adjacent cushion, throwing an arm behind his neck and patting the seat next to him.

You dust your skirt off with a huff. “Is that why you’re always hiding in them?” Still, with a smirk, you sit next to him. 

“Hey, good to see you, Liv,” he offers. “I was worried!”

“You were?” you ask. 

“You kind of bashed your brains in,” he points out, his perpetual grin a little pained. “I mean, it was crazy, but I’m not into that kind of crazy shit, you know?” 

“What kind?” 

“The kind where my friends get hurt.”

You admire the way he can admit something more personal than you’ve ever heard him say with a smile on his face, but you can’t imagine him any other way. “Sorry I kept you worried so long.”

Henry crosses his legs as he reclines. “I heard from the hospital like Saturday. I volunteer there sometimes; that’s why I’m here today.” He looks at you. “Angling for a job eventually. Can you imagine it? Dr. Henry Mori!” 

“Don’t you need a medical degree or something?” 

“Bought and paid for!” he declares, grinning. “Well, not paid for. I’ll be paying for that for the rest of my life. But so will they, so it’s all good, nyaha!” Looking at you look at him in surprise, he asks “Didn’t I tell you before?”

You look down because he may have told you about it before and you didn’t retain it. 

“Yeah, I put it on hold for a while because the troupe was fun and I spent a lot of time learning to dance.” He grins, narrowing his eyes. “Doctor by day, dancer by night. How dramatic, right?” 

You nod with a shaky smile, and his brow furrows as you fiddle with your purse. You lost focus with the troupe because you thought they didn’t care. They lost focus with you because they thought you cared too much. Then there’s Henry, probably the one person who you now know cared, who found it fun, who is half a dream down. 

“Hey,” he tells you. “‘S’not the end of the world, Liv. The end of the troupe, maybe, but we can dance without it, ya know?”

You nod with a smile, one riddled with tears. You sniffle, standing up straighter. “Sorry, Henry, I shouldn’t be the one upset.”

“You also shouldn’t be the one with a lump on your head,” he responds knowingly, “but the best intentions and all that shit. I don’t know.” He looks at you and says “All I know is that I haven’t been compelled to contact the other boys in the troupe unless I need Lon’qu to tell me how to punch a creep in the mouth like he did. Virion, if I ever see again, I’ll kick in the dick just like I promised.” You giggle, though your hands tighten on your purse as you’re reminded of the day’s activities. “I really only cared about if you were okay. Cause when we don’t need each other anymore, you’re really the only one I think’s gonna stick as a friend.” 

He stops as you take in his words with misty eyes. 

“...maybe Mr. Ottone. He’s cool.”

You giggle. “Give Basilio a call. He might make you useful while we figure out what to do.”

Henry grins. “Well, if you’re on a first name basis with him already.”

“Henry, he literally told us to call him by his first name,” you scold him. 

Henry perks up, as if remembering, then laughs that distinct, obtrusive, charming  _ nyaha  _ laugh. “Fine! You both can be my friends!”

You sink next to him. “Why?” you ask. “If I’m your friend… I don’t see how I earned it.” There you go, fishing for compliments again, but you just don’t get it. “Like, you deserve better friends.”

Henry shrugs. “I think it kinda cemented this week. I always had a feeling that you were different, like, you were  _ way  _ too into this, like, more than GS deserved. I could tell after a while that Stahl and Vaike were just doing things because it felt comfortable. You were always into being you, and I like that because I’m really into being myself. You can tell, nyaha!” He slaps his own knee. “Besides, I’m easy to satisfy. I took a while to be like, hey, I wanna get to know Olivia, but now…” He shrugs again. “Sounds fun!”

You beam at him, taking his hand with both of yours. “Thanks. I should probably treat myself better.”

He  _ nyaha _ s again. “Oh, you definitely should!” He stands up. “As much as I wanna wine and dine you, I gotta get back to doing my thing, and I don’t wanna keep your girl waiting.”

“My girl?”

He laughs. “Well, I doubt you have a convertible.”

You glower. “Got me there.”

“Also, she said hello to me when she saw me. She’s a sweetie.”

You chuckle. Leave it to Cherche to be more social than you are. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t keep her waiting either.” You get up to leave, but you realize that when you walk out the door, you're not heading home. You’re not heading anywhere comfortable. There’s a reason you dressed like a cheap threat today. 

Even though you’re not. 

“Hey, Hen…” If there anyone else, you would feel bizarre even asking, but since it’s Henry it’s worth a try. “Got, like… a thing I can defend myself with?” Then, you put your hands up. “It’s last minute, I’m sorry-”

Henry laughs and reaches into his pocket to pull out a small red boxcutter. He drops it in your open purse as you look on in awe. “I’m not supposed to have these, but what if a mugger tries to drop me in an alley?”

Assuming the scenario a distinct possibility, you say “Henry, I couldn’t take your only one!” 

“Don’t worry, I have two in the van!” With that, he  _ nyaha _ s one final time and starts to walk outside. “Take care of yourself, Liv!” 

“Can’t wait to get to know you!” you reply quickly. You watch him walk into the van he apparently came from, smiling to yourself, even as dread creeps up on you as the van drives away, soon a distant memory.

What a statement that you feel less safe with a white van gone.

Taking a deep breath, you make sure the knife is retracted before you continue out the doors and towards Cherche’s rented convertible. She looks at you, dressed in the suit she came to your house in (though much cleaner). She lowers a set of shades and smiles as you reach your side of the car. 

“Nothing exceptionally the matter?” she asks. 

“Nah, I’m fine.” You open the door and step into the car. “Well, as far as concussions go.” 

She nods as you buckle up, setting your purse by your feet. She turns the car on but goes nowhere. None of the two of you move, and all you can do is occasionally look at each other with uncertain resolve. In the light of day after the weekend, you two look different. You no longer can feel the comfort of hiding away from the world. You’re back in reality, where you clocked out for the weekend after hitting your head and re-enter it with a check-up on that very injury.

There’s a big difference between sex and this mess, but if one thing would “take you to the next level” then it would be this. 

“You okay?” you ask her.

“Better.”

“...but you’re not okay, are you?”

“...I’m better.”

You see her, tired, anxious, pensive. You want to kiss all her fears away until she is as loose and as relaxed as last night, but now that you’re here, nothing you could do would relieve her.

Nothing, except going with her on this trip. 

“Okay. I’ll take it.”

She looks at you with a small of a smile as she can afford.

Finally, you broach it as a reality you two have to direct yourselves to. No hypotheticals. No excuses. No interruptions. No half-measures. You deserve more than those, even if you don’t know if you believe it for yourselves as much as the other.

“Where did you two stay in Chon’sin?” 

“A hotel in the heart of Chon’sin downtown. Penthouse suite.”

“Okay.”

She takes a deep breath and reverses out of the parking space.

\---

When you get to the hotel, you watch Cherche hand its valet the keys as you put your purse on your arm and get the suitcases from the backseat, wheeling them forward in two pairs of two. The valet takes the front seat and asks “is that everything?”

You intentionally packed light. Just in case. You look at Cherche, and she nods. “That’s everything,” you breathe. You still don’t like talking to people, but you work on being as confident as you look. The valet wishes Cherche well and drives off. 

The two of you look up at the hotel, grabbing the suitcases. “Nice digs,” you blurt. The hotel scales higher than the mind’s eye can comprehend, strict gray with cutting green trimmings. It looks down on you for even being here, but you stare back at it.

She grins with piss and vinegar. There’s a divine amount of teeth. “I do always pick the finest.” 

You realize suddenly that this is the last hotel like this that she may enter- at least, the last you can afford her- and you can’t even manage an ironic smile.

The two of you enter, Cherche showing her ID. You deliberately avoid the front desk, and the attendant is too busy with another customer to help. This lets you slip to the elevator, where Cherche punches in the highest floo, like she did when you two visited the rooftop, except you have suitcases and not iced tea, and your purse contains a boxcutter and not a rose.

“We had the room checked out until Wednesday,” she explains. “We’ll see if that’s still the case.”

“Sure better be,” you threaten no one, getting into the mood of a woman with a boxcutter.

It’s as empty as it gets. You lean towards the back of a reflective silver surface, the floor carpeted in satin, the closed door that never opens obsidian. You feel like quite the plebeian, mussing up such a fine elevator with your presence. 

“These suitcases should be enough for everything,” you hear her say, eyes at the flatscreen where buttons usually are as the number rises. “I’ve not much in my name. I fear that a lot of what I lost I shall have to make up, but… there are some things.”

“I figured,” you say. “From what I know of you, you wouldn’t return otherwise.”

She smiles but turns away shortly after. “I fear at least a suitcase worth of what I have to take here are… sentimental. Keepsakes. Practical stuff too, but...:”

“You could rebuy practical things if you needed to,” you finish. “You can’t replace everything else, right?”

She sighs. “I believe I told you about how my memory has worked before. How I must own my memories as mine.”

“And each thing is just a thing unless something happens,” you add. “In my memory.” 

She looks up, eyes watching the elevator break into triple digits. “Guess they do.” A few seconds pass, and she grabs your arm, accidentally gripping with painful force. You can see the fear on her face when you motion for her to ease up on you, and though she does with a silent apology, you hold her hand as tight as she would want from underneath the suitcase handle, because you’re scared, too.

“Thank you,” she breathes. 

“Of course,” you respond, like the decision to join her was easy.

The elevator slows and dings on the floor you’re looking for. “Top floor,” an automated voice confirms impassionately. The doors part for you, and the two of you wheel your way down the hall, never too far from each other. Cherche stops before a room and reaches into her pocket. She pulls out her phone, then a card from the case that covers it. You recognize the hotel logo on its front. She scans it across a pad on the door that makes you wonder how she couldn’t comprehend the scanner on the streetcar station, but before you say anything, a light flashes red on the surface.

“Oh, no.”

Cherche sinks to the ground, leaning against the wall as she kneads her forehead. She turns towards you with shame in her eyes. “I am so very sorry, Olivia.”

You tilt your head, too unnerved to be fearful. “How come, babe?”

“Were this room vacant, it wouldn’t flash at all,” she explains. “The staff would have to activate it. Were the room able to accept it, though, it would flash green.” She sighs and holds onto a suitcase handle like a prisoner. “Red, though… means it’s locked from the inside.”

“Oh.” A second later, you get it.  _ “Oh.” _

She clasps a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry,  _ mon cheri.  _ I’d hoped not to involve you in this mess.”

You shake your head, even though your stomach feels empty of its contents- and if it’s not now, it will be in the immediate future. “I volunteered to go,” you respond, hand in your purse, on your box cutter. “I don’t know what you saw in me to protect you, but… I’m here.”

Cherche exhales sharply. “You are  _ worthy _ ,” she insists, harshly emphasizing both syllables of the third word. “Thank you.”

The two of you stay where you are for a few minutes. You look at each other, trying to make the prospect of knocking okay when you know who will answer it. You cannot see a scenario where you leave the room as the same person that you entered as.

Cherche rises to her feet, dusts her pants off, then nods at you as though you hold all of her willpower. 

You force a smile, then knock. 


	21. Standing In The Wake Of Devastation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dance your heart out. Take everything ugly, everything impure, everything unplanned, and make it part of your routine.

The way Virion lets you in is so calm and easygoing that it reaffirms without a doubt in your mind that he was expecting at least one of you. He smiles when watching you walk in, but you do not return his gaze, instead staring at the hotel room.

There are two king size beds with silk linens in the center of the room and a ten-foot tall grand window with two curtains in front of it. To the side by the wall is a vanity set that puts the one in your dressing room to shame, onyx and stern, made by someone who cares about making their craft sturdy as hell. The mirror reaches so high that you cannot imagine any human needing all eight feet of it. The kitchen appliances are all top of the line, and there are two doors to the side that are left ajar, revealing a restroom and a small walk-in closet. You almost ask Cherche if you can move here, but keep the joke on your tongue and try to stop looking on things like an awestruck child who could never imagine such extravagance in her community college classes and ratty secondhand halfway house.

“Why, my dear Cherche,” he croons, going to sit on a backless couch aside the wall nearest the door. “It’s such a surprise to see you here!”

Cherche nods, but says nothing, walking towards the closet with suitcases in tow. 

“I’m glad that you showed,” he says to her shadow. His voice escalates as she gets further and further away. “I was hoping we could  _ put this whole thing behind us!”  _ Loud as he is, he never yells, but his words are shifty, indicating an informal formality that does not feel like it exists. When he realizes that talking to her is a lost cause, he tenses up, a seismic shift.

Virion’s eyes are on you, and you refuse to meet them. “I can’t help but notice that you were quite impressed when you entered.” You flush bright red, still deeply scowling, every muscle tense and ready to strike. You follow where Cherche left to, and Virion follows. 

“I had hoped we would meet on better terms,” he tells you, far too close for comfort, “but regardless I’m delighted that you decided to grace me with your presence.” You feel his breath on your neck and let go of the suitcases, placing your hand in the purse and wrapping around the box-cutter.

“Stop,” you warn him in a tone so low that you don’t recognize yourself. It hurts your throat, your heart even more, but if it keeps him away, so be it.

“My dear,” he responds. “I know our last meeting might have left a poor impression, but I do truly admire you and wish for you to express your happiness.” 

“Keep dreaming.”

He places his palm on your back, fingers creeping like spider legs. You press your boxcutter open with an audible  _ zrrrrrp _ , and he steps back. 

“I see now that it’s not possible. What a shame.” 

You turn to look at him with wild eyes, daring him to approach you again. He places his hands near his back and smiles, bowing at you. Accidentally leaving the suitcases, you walk near a wall and lean back against it between the vanity and the closet door, hands still in your purse to retract your box-cutter. 

“You managing, Cherche?” you call. 

“Hmm,” she responds. “Something seems… off.”

“What does?”

“Let me clear the rest of the area, and then I’ll focus on that.”

You nod and face ahead. Virion smiles at you, and you glower ominously, one arm crossed and the other in your purse. He walks towards the suitcases and says “Why, allow me.” You start to walk towards them furiously. “No, no,” he reinforces. “With your head in the shape that it is, I-”

You meet him by the suitcases and grip both handles, staring him down. Both of you stand in a stalemate, his smile losing color that you didn’t realize it had, and your face afire from the flames of your hatred. You realize that as dastardly and selfish as Virion is, as much as he makes your skin crawl, he seems to actually think he can sway you to his side. 

“You were really hoping,” you breathe with a twisted smile. 

Before he can say anything, Cherche emerges from the closet, one of the suitcases in tow deliberately open and empty. She lets go of it when she’s sure it’s in public display. “I believe that some items are missing,” she announces. 

Virion steps back from the suitcase, and you and Cherche share a look. You grin with teeth like she would, and she gives an apologetic frown. 

Your gut sinks before Virion can even meet her with a pitiful, confused glance. “That  _ is  _ a concern. What can’t you find?” For the first time since you’ve met, his tone is stony, indifferent. 

She places a hand on her hip. “The photo albums,” she clarifies, “and oddly enough, one dress. Both quite mismatched items to end up missing.”

Virion kneads his forehead. When he looks up, his eyes are insincere and betray him. “Chalk that mistake up to a failure in responsibility on your behalf,” he responds, cracking a tiny smile. Behind you, Cherche sighs, tensing up. 

“Perhaps,” she says. “However, you should by now know me. You kn-”

“I do know you!” He points at her.  “I’ve known you better than anyone-”

“Get away from her!” you scream as you push out the blade of the box cutter. 

“You  _ know, _ ” she continues, raising her voice over him, “that I am not irresponsible or disorderly.” Hell no she’s not; she cleaned your entire apartment because she was bored. She gives you an apologetic look, and you nod.

“Then we are at odds,” he claims, “for I’ve no knowledge of where they are.”

“Interesting,” she responds. “I suppose I shall have to look for them elsewhere.”

“Advisable.”

_ “Liar.” _

Tired of the only language the other two speak being passive-aggression, you point at Virion in full aggression. Cherche looks at you in surprise, mouth taut, gripping her suitcase. Virion looks at you in bemused surprise, as if he was slapped by a squeaky toy. 

You march towards him, suitcases by the wall. Cherche gasps, and reaches for your shoulder. You stay under her grasp, but still point at Virion. “You’re lying,” you accuse. “I can tell because this is the only thing you’ve tried to convince us of since I’ve met you.”

“Not the only thing,” Cherche mutters. 

Virion holds his hands up. “I assure you, madame, that whatever has happened to her keepsakes are not the result of my hands.”

“ _ Liar! _ ” At this rate, you don’t have any concrete proof that he’s a liar, but you don’t care how you look to him. Ever caring at any point was your downfall. “Where are they?” Cherche passes you, moving to the counter of the kitchen area with her second suitcase, leaving her first by you.

“Look at you,” Virion muses. “So upset for something that isn’t happening.” 

“Don’t you dare,” you seethe. 

Cherche looks over from the counter, where she is unplugging a fine coffee maker. “Virion, that will be quite enough of your attempted dalliances with Miss Olivia.”

His expression darkens. “But of course, Cherche.” With a smirk: “Wouldn’t want to tread on your property.” You laugh sarcastically, but say nothing, staying in place save for you returning your hand to the boxcutter in your purse. At least he’s given up on the idea of being entitled to you. 

“Please do not,” she responds with sarcastic cheer. “T’would do well for you to avoid stepping on my toes for once.” Virion crosses his arms, and Cherche hands you a now-full suitcase. “If you would,” she says. 

“Absolutely,” you respond, taking it with your free hand. “I’m apparently your property, after all.”

Cherche lightly shoves you, and you force a smile even though you nearly push open and cut yourself on the boxcutter by mistake. Soon, she heads to the restroom, pulling along one of the suitcases you left for her. 

Virion faces you. “I would like to check both of the suitcases, madame.”

“Oh, would you?”

He nods. “I would like to see if there is anything in there she may have mistakenly thought was hers, not mine.”

You shake your head fiercely. It’s not like “accidentally” taking a thing or two from Virion is beyond Cherche, but Virion probably thinks that every one of Cherche’s possessions is his. Besides, after everything that happened, she deserves a nice coffeemaker from him at the very least. It would be a nice parting gift. 

“You are quite stubborn when you want to be,” he notes with an inauthentic chuckle. “Far from the fragile flower I first met a week ago.

“Good, then maybe you’ll leave me alone when I tell you to.”

He chuckles to himself. “Quite a tongue this woman has. I must admit I am unused to it.” 

You stare at him and press the boxcutter again. The familiar  _ zrrrrrp  _ echoes throughout the room. Virion is a little startled at the noise but looks at you again with a grin. “I would imagine you find yourself intimidating,” he notes in a mocking tone. “When you are more like… a mouse.”

“I don’t care how I look,” you say. “And if you try anything, you’re not going to either.”

The two of you stand across from each other. You glare at him with all your hatred, and he smirks with all of his derision. You suppose that is where the two of you will finish. 

You see Cherche emerge from the bathroom, suitcase packed. She leaves it by you, patting you on the shoulder. You turn and let your eyes follow her as she grabs the final empty one. 

“I knew that you owned a lot of toiletries,” Virion tells her, “but more than one suitcase worth?”

“No,” she responds. “They all fit into that one.”

Then she veers to the side of his bed and leans down. 

Virion’s eyes widen as he stands stiffly on his feet. You flip your eyes between the two of them, waiting for the moment Virion snaps and runs towards her, box-cutter still sharp enough to pierce through your bag. She starts to dig under his bed, and he slowly walks over. You run to meet him, hand in your purse still. 

He doesn’t bend down to confront her, only commenting “watch your hair, Cherche.”

Cherche stops for a second. You hear her growl, then continue under the bed. Virion does nothing but stand there, stonefaced, expectant. You feel that she has no real purpose to serve under there until you see her pull a stack of books out. 

“I wonder how they ended up here,” she says sarcastically. “Olivia, be a dear.” 

“Oh!” You take them into your hands, only for Virion to claim grip on them as well. You shriek and face him head-on, wondering how bad an idea it would be for you to headbutt him after the fall you suffered. 

Cherche pulls her head from underneath the bed and sees the both of you in a standstill, waiting for the other to drop the books, not wanting to do anything about it themselves. 

“Virion, let go of them,” she commands.  

“But Cherche!” he insists. “Do you honestly want these? Memories like these are what I was hoping to prevent when I took you with me as my assistant in the first place!” He gives her pleading eyes, and what nauseates you is that you feel that he means them. That he means this. That he thinks what he’s shown her is respect. 

“Not all of them are bad memories,” she muses. 

Then, she pulls out a fabric that drapes too long underneath the bed. She holds it up, revealing it to be a dress as she stands and holds it to her frame. It’s faded violet, a perfect complement to her eyes. There’s fringe on the bottom and it’s very form-fitting as it scales past the waist, ending with no arms and, as she flips it, no back. 

“Gorgeous,” you mumble. 

“This would be my first dress,” she explains. The two of you stare at her, you in alarm and him in panic, as she gingerly folds it and places it on her bed. 

Virion releases the books so sharply you’re flung backward onto the bed next to the dress. You fade in and out for a second from the sudden change of elevation, but manage to scramble the books into the suitcase even as your sight blurs. 

“You bastard.”

You look at the two of them, stomach churning, having never heard Cherche sound so vicious before. As your sight focuses, you see Cherche’s hand on Virion’s cravat. Her eyes search him for a reason not to knock his lights out. It’s all so negative and nasty that all you want to do is cry, but you grit your teeth at him, so he knows that if he says anything about it you will happily let Cherche punch him.

“Have mercy, my dear!” Virion begs. “Take the photo albums if you must, but leave me the dress!” 

She stares him down, hand on his cravat, a fist by her hip. She has never looked so disgusted.in your time seeing her. She regards the man formerly her boss, her longtime approximation of a best friend, with a scowl that cuts him down into someone quite pathetic. “So it can serve you the same purpose it served me?” 

“So it can serve as a memory of you!” he responds, desperate. “Have I not done enough to deserve that?”

She looks at him with a sneer, then with pity, as she lets him go violently. He falls against the bed across from you, unmoving. She lifts the suitcase up to her bed next to you. You carefully stack the photo albums on the side as she says “Virion, there are plenty of my memories of you that I would be happy to donate. Ones I have no need of. Perhaps you would enjoy them more than I did?”  

The two of them stare each other down, neither moving or budging. Virion makes no movement to deny anything, and Cherche makes no movement to back down. You watch the two of them with anxiety, only having the dress to pack, and you note that Cherche stands like she would really want something like your boxcutter, and the look in her eyes indicates that you two would be behind bars in an hour if you gave it to her.

So you put the dress in the suitcase, zip it up, and slide it off of the bed with a graceless thump. The two continue to look at each other like it’s the end, and the violence of the split after more than a decade shakes you. You know that neither of them will see each other again. You know that she doesn’t want to and that he has accepted that she never will return as best as he can. Its hideousness is so intimate that you feel like an intruder.

“We should go,” you whisper to Cherche, hand on her arm, face by her ear. She seems shaken out of her anger, her expression the aftershocks. She closes her eyes, then sets towards two of the suitcases by the counter. You follow, grabbing the one by her old bed and the one remaining. She grabs the handles of her two so tightly that she may crush them. You want to kiss her and relieve the stress, but don’t. 

“Olivia,” Virion says, fully exhausted. “Be worthy of Cherche. More than I ever have been.” The words are so dull, so reluctant, so lifeless, that they are nothing but life-affirming honesty that lets you know that you are on something adjacent to the right path. 

You walk through the door Cherche has held open for you. “ _ I am _ . Farewell, Virion.”

You exit, and prepare yourself to never see him again. 

The two of you walk to the elevator. No, you  _ run  _ even though he is not following you. Cherche presses the button to summon the elevator three times in a row. As you two wait for an excruciatingly long time for it, you see how much the color has drained from her. She’s blank-faced, her clothes are ruffled, and she shakes more than you are. The only thing organized about her is her hair, while you see your own messy frizz just in front of you, obscuring your sight like you just woke up. 

The elevator finally comes up. You two and the four suitcases are alone. You reach for her, and she hugs you so close that you wonder if she’s trying to heal herself. You try not to cry, but don’t last for ten floors before you do. She holds onto you as you rest your weary head on her shoulder, because she has no tears left to cry. You just know that she needs you as badly as you need her. 


	22. We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be fearless, be bold, and dance for you just as much as those who watch you. If you neglect one, you will neglect the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so difficult to write. I had to fine-tune EVERYTHING. I still don't think I did, but I gotta get to it sometime.

You two drive about a mile away from the hotel before you stop in a narrow side street conquered by buildings on both sides. All four suitcases are in the backseat, sitting straight up like children rebelling against seatbelts. Cherche has activated the cover of the convertible. (“Just in case,” she said.) Your head is down and you can’t let go of the box knife in your purse, even though you won’t need it. Even as still as you are, you can’t let go of the fear. 

Cherche doesn’t shut the car off. The engine purr makes it feel like an unspoken presence more than a set piece. There’s something unstable in the air. It doesn’t feel unreal like far too much does. It feels far too real, and you haven’t a clue of how to escape it. It’s inebriating and feels like you’ve been swung around at full force, head injury and all, and standing still through it all takes everything within you. 

Perhaps that’s why you’re holding onto the only thing that gives you any sort of power, just breathing, because the visit alone exhausted you. All you need to do is look at how haggard Cherche is, how close she is to breaking, and it’s enough to make you feel so guilty for your shaken anger that you don’t even want to tell her about it and make her worry about you.

Unfortunately, fate has other plans. 

She follows the trace of your hand before you notice in time to rip it from the knife. You only piece it together when she cautiously asks “Olivia, what are you holding?” 

You release it like a flaming poker, suddenly ashamed, but you can’t lie, so you pull out the box-cutter. “Henry gave it to me,” you admit. “I just… wouldn’t feel okay for either of us if we weren’t protected.”

She notices the way that the skin on your hands is indented with the shape of the cutter. She shakes her head and rests it on the car horn. “I shouldn’t have coerced you to accompany me,” she whispers. “I shouldn’t have made you… do this.”

You shake your head. “I would feel less okay if you went alone. You know, you shouldn’t ever have to think that you’re alone.”

“I hurt you,” she hisses. “Everything is such a mess, and it’s my fault. There’s been so much destruction in my wake, and it’s- you got caught up in it. I’m… I…” She looks up at the roof. “ _ Gods! _ ” 

You’re too tired to let that scare you, but it still sets you on edge, because  _ she  _ is hurt. You shake your head. “Things were already heading that way,” you explain. “You just helped me stop denying it.” You place your hand on the center compartment, looking at her expectantly. 

She doesn’t return it, leaving your stomach to burn with anxiety as you realize that you met each other right as your personal calamities started and fell so, so hard that you never stopped to think that maybe she wants to be alone. All of the winds of change tore you apart and threw the pieces of you into each other so hard that you’ll never lose the scars from colliding with her. Maybe a day will come when you stop needing each other, but for now, you both need the women who helped cause the misfortune that you never knew you needed. 

Instead, she takes a deep breath, the kind that’s an apology to herself, the one of someone preparing to stand up and leave limbo. Then, she shuts the car off. The silence is so stark that you hear Cherche’s every stunted breath. 

“Do you remember the suitcase that you put my sentimental items in?”

“Hard to forget.”

She takes a second, closing her eyes. Then: “There’s a silver-covered album in it. I want you…” She clears her throat, unable to stand by her own words. “I need you to look through it.”

You want to ask questions, but you can tell by the curt way she breathes that you should let the album speak for her. Still questioning the world around you, you reach into the back seat and (after you realize that Cherche switched from the seat behind you to put in the center while you were loading) unzip it and carefully grab the album in question from behind the seat belt. It’s thin and laminated many times to keep it together. You pull it into the front seat and look to see Cherche shaking with the nerves that you once had around her.

“Are you okay, Cherche?” You two don’t rely on pet names at this point. This is real. 

Cherche shakes her head. “Everyone’s gonna know soon.”

“Know what?”

She swallows. “Forgive me. I have to let this go. By all means, don’t stop… this.”

You nod hesitantly, still worried as you open the cover. 

You see a young man who somewhat resembles Cherche, with cropped blond hair flowing behind him and the occasional riddle of acne that used to ruin your day and make you feel ugly. He’s standing on a balcony atop a building with his hands behind his back, smiling in front of a city that you do not recognize, with letters on high-rise billboards that do not read of your native tongue. You smile at the caption:  _ Serge in Valm, 2007 _ . 

Then, your smile drops as you fear the worst for Serge, and by proxy Cherche. 

Cherche sighs and chokes back a sob. You place a hand on her shoulder, and she stiffens, unaccepting. You aren’t sure what to do, so you mumble “don’t cry, hon,” and return to the photo book.

The pictures are always the same. Serge forcing a tiny smile as he stands in front of places he does not seem close to. _Serge in Mount Prism. Serge in Regna Ferox. Serge in the Valm Wellspring._ One reads _Serge back in Rosanne_ (a tiny seaside nation not too far away) with a heart near it, and he looks at ease, though strangely paranoid- like he’s being threatened into smiling when he would have regardless. The years slowly pass by, from 2007 to 2011 in a few short pages, and his hair grows longer and shorter by the day in waves.

Cherche chokes down another sob, shaking so much that you can feel it. Immediately, she apologizes, brushing unkempt hair out of her face.

You say “Honey, you're…” You close your eyes and feel for her hand.

“Go on,” she requests forcefully.

“I'm just… scared.”

She squeezes your hand, then quickly pulls away. “So am I.”

You decide to hurry through the album so that you can do what she wants and then comfort her. You turn the page and it’s 2012, more of the same, though you notice Serge’s clothes getting looser and his physique getting tighter. The next page starts 2013, and Serge’s hair grows longer, down to his ears, and slowly to his neck, accentuating a softened face and curves in the lines of his body- both of which are in progress. The growth is like a flip book, where every photo is in a natural progression from the beginning of the year to the end. 

You hear staccato breaths from Cherche’s direction. Her hands are clasped as if praying, and she keeps repeating “they’re all gonna know” like a calming chant. You so badly want to comfort her. You so badly want her to accept it. Still, you keep reading- the only thing that may work.

In 2014, Serge slowly grows into someone you did not recognize before. The Serge who spent 2013 in a _ great perhaps _ becomes an individual. There’s a photo of him in a sarong where he looks oddly feminine and is truly smiling, something going right. Then you look at the next photo where he’s had a massive haircut and is clearly less happy, and your empathy is so strong that you’re unhappy for this stranger. You can’t imagine what it would be like to spend so long to make your hair an icon of yourself only to lose it all, lose Serge…

Before you start to tear up, because you  _ will,  _ you flip the page. It’s 2015, and only one picture is shown on the right page that you see. You gasp because it’s Cherche, a younger Cherche. She is smiling uneasily with hollow confidence. This Cherche is growing at your current age in a way that you did in puberty, her hips barely widening, her body learning her curve, her feet daintier in a pair of heels that accompany the violet dress that she fished out from under Virion’s bed, one that she wears on the helipad of a tall building with many city lights in the distance. Only her hair seems developed, the same length and volume as it holds today.

Below it, it reads in the same handwriting more worn than before:  _ Cherche in Yu’dayi,  _ which you recognize as a city in Chon’sin the nation. You’re so captivated by her that it takes you a second to realize that a year later provides no proof of Serge. 

“Where did Serge go?” you ask. 

Cherche laughs bitterly. With a voice hoarse from quiet tears, she says without looking at the book “look at the page across from it.” 

“Cherch-”

“Please.”

“I'm just…”

A few seconds pass as you fail to verbalize what you're feeling. She fills the space instead. “I would feel… unfathomable relief if you did.”

You do, even as you are set to panic about the state she’s in. You notice four pictures, looking like a toy hologram that processes Serge becoming a different person, more like the Cherche on the page across. One of them abruptly wears her hair, and it looks so much like her that you know it is. 

Below one, in pen mark: Serge/Cherche.

It all hits you, all the things that you noticed and didn’t, and you feel like a  _ gods-damned fool  _ for never considering them all, and how they tie this album together into a piece of the woman who you will only ever know as Cherche. You’re not presumptive- you’d probably die before you made assumptions- but you should have at least seen one of the signs. She clearly expected you to try and clock her every time the discussion was on her- that this was the byproduct of the time in her life where…

_ “I tried to figure out who Cherche was, I suppose you could say.” _

You want to say something to her, but nothing seems like  _ enough.  _ You don’t know what she expected, and you fear that you’ll let her down, slip up, see her differently, but you’re in awe of the story her life has told in only a handful of pictures. Your love for its character is a revelation that unlocks a part of you that you never knew was there, because she is brilliant, and she was once like you- only she’s more than a quarter-life crisis and insecurity complex. Cherche had to fight every step of the way to be who she wanted, and you admire that greatly. 

“Cherche.” 

She looks at you, alarmed at your reaction, confounded that it is not less than this. You look at her and ask “Can I finish this now?”

She closes her eyes. “I’m not sure why you feel the need to. You saw what you needed.”

“I need to see how Cherche progresses through the plot,” you insist. “I need to know how it ends.” Though you don’t tell her in fear of sounding insensitive, the transition is the most important part of a dance, and you can already tell that she mastered hers. 

Cherche furrows her brows. “That’s a nice gesture,” she says, “but right now… I do not need a nice gesture. What I need is for you to be honest. Straightforward with me.” 

You crash down to the real world. “Oh. I gotcha.”

She throws a hand up. “I… hate sharing this,” she admits. “It will always make me different by circumstance, but I need to know… so many will- I just…” She’s never spoken this clumsily before. “I needed to know what kind of person I fell for… what she thi-” 

Something in the words  _ the person I fell for  _ immolates your insides, as you grasp how important to her you are, and you can’t stop yourself from blurting “I love you!”

You cover your mouth as soon as you say it because it seems so saccharine, so sugary, such a  _ happy ending  _ that feels more like desperately trying to wrap a broken present instead of fixing it. Cherche looks at you with confusion, unsure of what to do with those three words. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I mean… that wasn’t what I should have done, but it’s... You deserve more… I’m an idiot, and you dese-” You fan at your face, flushed from tears. “I’m sorry. I’m making it about me.” You do your best to choke it in because this isn’t a stage that you should take over. It isn’t your show. “Sorry.”

“I…” She locks eyes onto the steering wheel, too angry to dissect you. “You know what he said, that finally cemented to me that I could not do this with him anymore?” You don’t say anything, only putting your hand on her shoulder, deciding that if she wants it gone she can swat it off. “He said… something akin to ‘how could someone like you ever be worthy of her?’”

You jolt again and buck up, immediately angry. “What the fuck? To your face?”

She nods, directing the same loveless look to the poor steering wheel that she gave Virion on that fateful day. “Rather hysterical that he felt himself worthy of your affections in my stead.”

You shake your head. “I’m so sorry. That he said something so dis-”

“He knew!” she shouts. It’s so raw that you nearly cry. She isn’t supposed to hurt like this. “That wrecked bastard. I fully believe that he knew exactly what he was saying.” You close your eyes, not daring to interrupt her. To your surprise, she decompresses and nearly collapses at the wheel, blood drained from her face. 

“That was  _ Virion _ ,” she says. “I’ve known him forever. Leaving him in his mess was the hardest thing I have ever done.” She sighs, but she’s about to cry. “It was far too easy for him to… break my spirit so.”

You shake your head. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

She sits up, mist on her eyes that she doesn’t let form into tears. “I apologize,” she says, voice hoarse. “I certainly did not mean to manipulate you. I just… wanted you to know my anxiety.”

“Cherche.”

“The anxiety that… maybe I could have done anything, but still would prove him right.”

“No, no, no, Cherche-”

“Perhaps it’s not a fair thing to fear from others, that they will see me as that sort of woma-”

“Cherche,” you repeat firmly. She blinks, then looks at you directly, slightly shaken. “Cherche, you heard me, right?”

“...possibly. I have been a little dazed today, this I’ll admit. Something about…”

“Me loving you?”

She slowly nods. “That may have been the basis of your statement, yes.” 

You giggle to yourself. “That’s been my opinion for a while, and it hasn’t changed.”

She smiles gracefully. Her aura is comfortably warm. “ I wanted you to know first. I… don’t trust that it will not be public information soon. Call it paranoia, or a woman’s instinct.”

“Why me?”

She rankles her brow and closes her eyes. Sighing as though releasing a burden: “Experience is a teacher, and… I cannot bring myself to trust anyone regarding this. I… wanted to get the hurt out of the way now while everything was still up in the air.”

“You were scared of how I would react?”

She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t nod, doesn’t move, just closes her eyes. Then: “I’m sorry.”

You nod. A part of you is hurt that she still hasn’t fully trusted you, and the disappointment shows on your face, but you’re also appreciative of the burden she has to carry. You notice her glancing your way shyly a few times, searching your face, and you decide that you shouldn’t be quiet, because she will read into things. You read into things, and though you would never have guessed it, you two are alike. 

“I gotcha,” you start. You never did like using your words. “That’s valid, because… not everyone is worthy of your trust. Especially with that. But… I appreciate that you told me. You didn’t have to, but you did. I’m gonna prove to you that I’m worthy of your trust, ‘cause you earned my love.” You giggle and exhale at the same time. “So it’s kind of a fair trade, right?”

She hums and smiles. “You are so good with words,  _ mon cheri, _ ” she muses. 

“I think that’s our appeal as a couple,” you respond. Then: “Uhm, I mean- you know, if you-”

She squeezes your hand. “Our going steady is a given. I feel after everything we have said and done, we would only be playing fools at this point. Right now, I think you would agree with me that we need an ounce of solidity in our paths going forward, correct?”

“Yeah, that’s true…” you admit. “So…” you lean over the center console, closing the photo album. “We’re together, right?”  _ Even though I’m a mess of social anxieties with no filter, a stubborn streak, a shitty apartment and thirsty bank account, while you are  _ Cherche _?  _

Her response is immediate. “Come what may. I... will do my best to have faith in us.”

You giggle, even if you still feel like you’ve yet to be worthy of her faith. You just know that, though you’ve never been a great woman, you have faith in yourself to be better for her, to be good for her, to make it clear how worthy she is of your affections.

Maybe that you’re worthy of hers too.

Even if you already have them.

You two sit quietly for a minute, occasionally stealing glances at each other, but you two will stay in this side street forever if you keep this up and you know it. So you say “Can we go home now?”

“Home?” she asks. 

You nod. “We have a good bit of unpacking to do. Home is kind of shitty, but… you made it a little better.” Gods, you have so much to say, to try and make this transition of your lives better, to make two strings intertwine into one, but you can’t and shouldn’t interfere with how you naturally progress things.

“Home isn’t shitty,” she assures you. “Home is nice.”

With that and no other words, she drives the two of you home. 

You put the photo album back in the suitcase it was in and help to pull the suitcases up the stairs, Cherche cooing a soft hello to Minerva. You set them in the living room with the intention of putting things away, then five minutes later find you drifting to sleep together in your bed. Wishfully, you think about waking up with everything being right, good, and ideal, but you wake up to a setting sun not having reached it yet. 

She sleeps in your arms and makes that okay because this feels right. You aren’t sure where you are in life, but in all of its mess, all of its disasters, you see her smile in her sleep with her mouth sneaking open, her wig on the dresser and its absence leaving abandoned sandy hair that reaches to her chin, unconsciously planning a return to confidence, and even though things aren’t finished yet, you decide that  _ here _ is good enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cherche here is the first trans character I ever have written to this extent. Being trans myself, I felt like I had a lot on my shoulders this chapter, especially from a cis perspective- don't make it too perfect, or too cloying, or too easily shut. I think a lot of the effects on trans people are real, especially the lack of trust. That was easy to write, if hard to convince people of. I just wanted to write something real.


	23. Dancing In A World Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you dance with someone you love, make every step count. It will be the most beautiful dance that you’ve ever done.

You steal away in an empty training room when you visit Basilio’s theater again. You’ve been teasing an idea in your head, but a concept is just a concept. Dancing with new people, the kind who do not normally get to share the stage with you, is all you have. Besides, you’re not here to pitch to him today. You’re here to take Cherche home. True, it’s the same journey on the bus that you always make, so she doesn’t need you here today, but she has a tendency to get lost when not relying on the GPS of the rental car she has long since returned. 

Doesn’t explain how you ended up in the training room, but you don’t have a good reason. You just wanna try to dance on your own again. It’s been too damn long.

You stretch to open one of the tiny basement windows, though you keep the curtains shut. The balmy swelter of late August sweeps through like a fever about to break. You have no routine and you’re in civilian clothes (a white armless crop top, a knee-high black shirt, your comfortable flats, and a loose ponytail between a nice set of braids that Cherche helped you with), but you manage. You pirouette, spin, and flip- though you handstand halfway through the ones you used to execute without. With the weeks that have gone by, you’ve gotten a little rusty, but it feels like rust you can work out.

Then you hear a gentle knock on the door. “ _ Mon cheri?”  _

“Oh!” You scramble towards the door and let Cherche in. She’s a little messy and her clothes need washing. She still has not adjusted out of her formal jacket and slacks style, one much too dressy for a makeup artist. She always says she hasn’t more clothes, but she came into your home to stay with a moderate nest egg left over from her old job. Not enough to make you millionaires, but enough to get by for a while, and enough for her to at least buy a white T-shirt and some work pants should she want. 

She stands across from you, so you reach across her neck and hug her. She’s a little surprised by the abruptness, but she returns it, sighing comfortably into your shoulder. “Hi, babe,” you say. 

“It’s good to see you,” she responds, but by the way her body relaxes under your touch, it is far more than  _ good _ . 

“Same!” Affection is less a necessity and more a formality at this point, but it still feels nice. Eventually, she wraps her arms around you, tenderly stroking your shoulder blades. With Virion gone, she no longer focuses on being his better half, and you notice the focus she has given to being yours. 

(Judging by news articles of Virion’s backfiring investments into gaudy startups, he needs more than a  _ half _ . Still, that is graciously all you’ve heard about him. Cherche still keeps a lookout, out of self-admitted paranoia, but you understand. Even though you can’t call yourself the better half, you’re still her  _ half,  _ and the least you can do is make her feel valid.)

Eventually, you two split. She sets her purse down on the floor nearest a wall (a planner breaking out of its near-bursting confines) and looks at the dancing room, a smudge of concealer on her cheek below her eye. “It’s odd to see this in its entirety.”

“It’s just a room,” you say, shrugging. 

“True,” she muses. “I’m just fascinated to think of what you make of it.”

You sigh. “I mean, I haven’t in a while,” you admit. “I just… needed to get some exercise in, I guess.” You remember the last time you were in here and place your hand on the bridge of your nose. “You know, make it feel mine again.”

She places a hand on your shoulder, looking at you. “I don’t suppose you have a pitch ready for Mr. Ottone?”

You giggle, thinking of how many times you have told her to call him Basilio before you just gave up. “Uhm, not yet,” you admit. “Just ideas, and feelings, I guess. Stupid stuff that doesn’t really amount to anything.”

She smiles and releases you, sitting down on her knees. “Let them germinate,  _ mon cheri. _ Don’t let them wither.”

You nod. “I mean, you never know.” They do feel like  _ something,  _ but you’re not sure what. “I’m gonna try and figure that out.” You smile mischievously, because you may have an idea of how you can figure it out. You stand alone, stretching. She looks at you, and you grin. After you work any remaining kinks in your muscles out:  "I don't suppose I can trouble my queen for a dance?" 

She smiles, blushing. She's amazed and a touch honored, but this is your honor. She deserves to be treated like a queen after so long as a servant. She leverages you to stand up on her feet. "I would love nothing more,  _ mon cheri _ ."

You smile and flip to your playlist on your phone, but Cherche taps your shoulder. “If I may.” She gestures towards your phone.

“Oh!” You tap the search function in your music app. “You wanna deejay it?”

She nods. “There's a song dear to me that I think you may like in regards to this.” Batting her eyelashes melodramatically, she adds “It's six minutes long.”

You hand her the phone. “Well, why didn't you just say so?” 

She types in the name of the song, chuffed when it comes up. “It's good for a slow dance. Very close to my heart.” 

“There’s a little speaker and an aux cord on the far wall,” you tell her. 

“Many thanks.” She goes to plug it in. After you move to stand next to her, she presses play, speaker echoing against the walls. As a synth guitar slowly sways through the start of the song, you place a hand on her waist and keep the other hand in hers. She raises them, and you laugh giddily.

This already feels better.

A flurry of retro drum beats sound off like space blasters and drop into quiet singing, and you begin. 

You start off slow, swaying in the breeze coming from the window and holding onto her waist. She doesn't hold you back, following what she's supposed to do and staying at a base level, until the song rushes up and she spins around on your hand, free of your waist. You're a little stunned, but you're grinning as artlessly as possible. You pull on her hand as she stops, drawing her closer to your side. She hmms, placing a hand on your shoulder, grip tightening. She meets your gaze and raises an eyebrow. 

You can always tell when she's turned on because she starts to take control a lot more.

Before, you felt that you overestimated her as a dancer when you tried to teach her a routine, but she's a natural when she doesn't have to obey a set of steps.  She follows steps that she was taught, true, but she always gives them more. She knows how to hold you, how to move with you, how to complement you. When she spins, she flies. When she holds you, her fingers drench your skin. When she dips in your arms, she always arches backward in such a captivating way, and whenever she can, her eyes never leave yours, begging you to watch her, watch her dance, dance with her. 

When the music dips again, you hold her back to catch her, which is probably necessary before she pulls a  _ you  _ and drops on the carpet head-first (she’s way too daring). She follows your lead, moving up to your chest and gently grabbing your shoulder. You two sway slightly, but you lose yourself in the mauve in her eyes, the line in her nose that barely exists from the front line of sight, the knowing turn in her thin painted lips, the way her hair, stitched into a bald cap, fits so effortlessly to the back of her head and around her ears as though coerced to behave, and you realize how deep you’ve fallen in that you notice these things- notice her- in a way that can’t comprehend how she ever presented herself to be the second-most _ anything _ in a room.

Your affections haven't died down over time. They’ve just made more sense.

The music kicks back in and awakens you from your trance. You move your hands towards hers, grabbing the tips. She reads you so well that it’s an art in itself and dips back. Then, she twirls around, your hands holding hers like a puppet to string. You spin to match her as she steps back, impressed. 

Through sheer repetition, you hear the song lyrics from the female singer.  _ “Oh, queen of the night…”  _

You reach to hold her back, and she dips back in your arms so far she bends over, raising hers below her head, so low her hair drapes onto the floor in their stead.

_ “She is deep inside.” _

Another singer, faded and male:  _ “She could be mine.” _

She leans up, raising her leg and hiking it around your waist. You gasp and nearly break character, but you can’t say you mind how close she pulls towards you. She can control you, and you don’t mind, because you want her control. Hopefully, she knows that.

_ “She is haunting me.” _

She turns with you, and through the strength of her leg, you dare to bend back so far that your spine may snap in half. Then, like elastic, you snap back to her face and kiss her. It’s just for a moment, but she’s stunned in place like you kissed the off-switch. Your mouth drops for a second but you opt not to draw attention to it.

The transition is the most important part of the dance, after all.

You take her hands, and she snaps back from the daze you left her in but isn’t as loose in her dance as she usually is. So, you dip beneath her hands and turn her to follow you as you duck to the other side in one fell swoop, stretching out as far as you dare. You bend over nothing in the middle of the room and pull on her arms as you do. She pulls back, forcing you so hard to her chest that you’re surprised that you don’t bash each others’ heads in. She spreads her arms out with yours in her grip, as you premeditated. She grins slightly, hungry as ever. 

You dance closely, slightly, just enough. The music starts to peter out, and your arms fall by your sides, split, then wrap around each other before the two of you kiss each other. It’s not the grand finale an audience would expect from you, but this dance isn’t for them. This dance is for you.

Eventually, she breaks from your lips, and leans into your shoulder because she’s not yet recognized that she is taller than you. Either that, or she doesn’t care. You don’t move her, even as the song changes to a quieter, windswept song by the same artist. She breathes in the air above your shoulder, exhausted from the energy she exerted, because she's not a dancer like you who would see this as a warmup. All you can hear are the cars from the window, footsteps faintly heard on the floor around and above you, and her breath in your ear. She grips you to stay standing, and you don’t move. 

She catches her breath after a few minutes, and you let yourself fall into peace. Nothingness feels better with her around.

“Thank you for the dance,” she breathes, “my queen of the night.”

Thank the Gods that she cannot see your face, cannot see your eyes as they widen and nearly launch your brows off of your face, cannot see the way your face contorts into a shaky, graceless gasp with silent tears falling down your face.  _ The queen of the night, of a song dear to her heart, a song she gifted to you.  _

Internally, you swoon.  _ Aw, she really does love me.  _ She hasn’t said those three words yet, but sometimes she does things like that, things that say it for her.

You pull away from her shoulder to face her, lips an inch apart. You don’t kiss, but in her arms, you breathe her in and feel your lungs fill with something stronger. This is dance, and dance is you, but this dance is something more than you have ever performed, so maybe you are something more than  _ Olivia.  _

This truly was practice, a dance to celebrate your affections, and you feel it so much more than any other dance you’ve ever done. It demands more than you gave it. It demands something to be made of it. 

So you do.

\---

The lights dim over the stage once more a few weeks later. The spotlight focuses on you, dressed in the same violet show-stopping dress that a younger, smaller Cherche wore and donated to you when you fit it. You almost step on it once or twice, but you’ve learned to avoid it. 

People have gathered for the show- a full crowd after Basilio went hard in the paint with marketing as soon as you two arranged everything (within an hour of you pitching the idea to him). “I knew you were a smart woman!” you remember him crowing. “This old bastard knows what he’s talking about!” You’re still beaming.

Basilio took the two of you to dinner at a local sports bar that you may have been to a few times afterward. Well, that's not the whole story; Basilio took the two of you, Henry, and Henry’s recent boy-toy. You remember the new face, actually tried to learn things about him. You learned that his name was Gaius. He always smirked, he ordered the sweetest drinks he could find, and he had nicknames for the four of you by the night’s end. (Patches, Doc, Formal, and Ribbons- he may have changed yours to Ribbons after you politely informed him that you hate being called  _ Babe _ .) 

You also got to know Henry a little. You learned that Henry could tell you the backstory of half of the memorabilia there, that he would love to dance every once in a while but is focusing on his medical career, his laissez-faire take on romantic partners that takes him eight seconds to explain, and that the fact that he never stops smiling is out of genuine joy. You enjoy that, and when you notice that Cherche could knock the mead back just as well as Basilio, you enjoy that too.

It’s so nice to have a sort of family again, but you snap back into the now now.

“So…” you start. This is a new experience, and you want to jump out of your skin just trying it. Still, in a quiet voice thankful for a volume-boosted microphone, you say “I had this idea when I realized that dancing wasn’t  _ just _ for me.” You think for a second and blush as you realize you may have worded it wrong. “I mean, it's not only there to, like, mean something to me! It's for everyone!” 

You smile. That's better.

“I think for a long time I thought it was my thing. It always made me feel better about myself, and…” You giggle nervously. “If you don’t know me, you have  _ no clue  _ how big of a deal that is.” The others politely chuckle, but you hear Henry  _ nyaha  _ louder than your microphone, shaking Gaius into forcing a smile. 

“But I think I figured it out,” you continue, in the present. “I think that I was able to give that feeling to someone I loved. That sort of validation, that sort of voice and platform that she… really, neither of us could ever get before. That’s how this whole routine popped up, because then… you know, the world could see us.”

You know there are other performers behind you and think of them all, feeling affection for your burgeoning troupe just for  _ being. _ This isn’t just you. It was never meant to be. How could you share the stage alone, especially when the whole idea of the show is to give queer people like you a voice? How could you take that away from them for your aspirations of glory? 

The first routine is all you need. 

“So I’m gonna take the lead on that.” With a smile, you call back “I’m going to introduce you to my girlfriend, Cherche. Come on out!” 

“Quite ahead of you there,” you alone hear her joke, and you giggle. She walks with enviable grace onto the stage, wearing the backless dress that she dug out of the closet on your first day together. As expected from a burgeoning makeup artist, her face is exquisitely painted, fitting of a royal. She waves at the crowd and Henry whistles with pride. She stands next to you, readier than you are.

“The reason you’re here tonight,” you start, a release in your chest because it is so easy to praise her, “is because of her. I learned a lot from her just by knowing her.” Taking her hand, you say “So it’s only fitting that the first dance we ever throw for this show has her in it.”

She smiles at you and pats the top of her hair. “You’re fine,” you whisper away from the mic. 

“I’m drop dead gorgeous,” she responds with a smirk, “is what I am.”

“I'd expect no less from a queen.”

You turn back to the microphone. “I hope that you enjoy the show.”

You two stand in position as the music starts, a guitar-driven pop song you remember from your college days, one that made you feel less alone, less like a human error. If she is going to give you a piece of her world, you will return with a piece of yours.

She smiles at you, and you return it. 

Your routine is nothing special. There are no flying acrobatics, dramatic flips, or headspins, and your hair does not threaten to smother them all. It is soft, it is cautious, but the moments you throw yourself into things, you fly into them. You two spin, dip, and curl into each other when called for. You two improvise a little when she forgets the steps, and you let her fix the transitions with more of her than she anticipated. As your dancing slows to a halt while the song dips into a lone guitar riff and engineered aimless chattering, with the lead repeating “ _ People are talking, people are talking _ ”, you hold her gently, so the audience can see the love when the theatrics step aside. 

_ “Let them talk.” _

With that, the music stops immediately. You stop, hand on her waist, the other holding hers in the air. The crowd applauds loudly, Henry doing his best to hype it up from his seat with screams and whoops. They do not jump their seats and scream declarations of love, and you doubt you will get many roses backstage, but it’s alright. You’re taken anyway. 

You look at Cherche, the woman who caused all of this fortune, and smile.

“Thank you for the dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been an immense pleasure to spend the last month writing this, when it was supposed to be a relatively short story, to as long as my works usually are, to a novel. I've written almost entirely short stories, so this has been a huge trip for me. I've enjoyed giving everything I have to something like this, thinking over and fine-tuning every detail on my own. Every line has a reason to exist, and testing myself through them has made me the best writer I have ever been. I really hope you have enjoyed this as much as I have. 
> 
> -MoD


End file.
